《恋爱中的女人》——  Women in Love 中英对照版【完结】_派派后花园

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[Novel] 《恋爱中的女人》——  Women in Love 中英对照版【完结】

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。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 20 Gladiatorial


AFTER the fiasco of the proposal, Birkin had hurried blindly away from Beldover, in a whirl of fury. He felt he had been a complete fool, that the whole scene had been a farce of the first water. But that did not trouble him at all. He was deeply, mockingly angry that Ursula persisted always in this old cry: `Why do you want to bully me?' and in her bright, insolent abstraction.
He went straight to Shortlands. There he found Gerald standing with his back to the fire, in the library, as motionless as a man is, who is completely and emptily restless, utterly hollow. He had done all the work he wanted to do -- and now there was nothing. He could go out in the car, he could run to town. But he did not want to go out in the car, he did not want to run to town, he did not want to call on the Thirlbys. He was suspended motionless, in an agony of inertia, like a machine that is without power.
This was very bitter to Gerald, who had never known what boredom was, who had gone from activity to activity, never at a loss. Now, gradually, everything seemed to be stopping in him. He did not want any more to do the things that offered. Something dead within him just refused to respond to any suggestion. He cast over in his mind, what it would be possible to do, to save himself from this misery of nothingness, relieve the stress of this hollowness. And there were only three things left, that would rouse him, make him live. One was to drink or smoke hashish, the other was to be soothed by Birkin, and the third was women. And there was no-one for the moment to drink with. Nor was there a woman. And he knew Birkin was out. So there was nothing to do but to bear the stress of his own emptiness.
When he saw Birkin his face lit up in a sudden, wonderful smile.
`By God, Rupert,' he said, `I'd just come to the conclusion that nothing in the world mattered except somebody to take the edge off one's being alone: the right somebody.'
The smile in his eyes was very astonishing, as he looked at the other man. It was the pure gleam of relief. His face was pallid and even haggard.
`The right woman, I suppose you mean,' said Birkin spitefully.
`Of course, for choice. Failing that, an amusing man.'
He laughed as he said it. Birkin sat down near the fire.
`What were you doing?' he asked.
`I? Nothing. I'm in a bad way just now, everything's on edge, and I can neither work nor play. I don't know whether it's a sign of old age, I'm sure.'
`You mean you are bored?'
`Bored, I don't know. I can't apply myself. And I feel the devil is either very present inside me, or dead.'
Birkin glanced up and looked in his eyes.
`You should try hitting something,' he said.
Gerald smiled.
`Perhaps,' he said. `So long as it was something worth hitting.'
`Quite!' said Birkin, in his soft voice. There was a long pause during which each could feel the presence of the other.
`One has to wait,' said Birkin.
`Ah God! Waiting! What are we waiting for?'
`Some old Johnny says there are three cures for ennui, sleep, drink, and travel,' said Birkin.
`All cold eggs,' said Gerald. `In sleep, you dream, in drink you curse, and in travel you yell at a porter. No, work and love are the two. When you're not at work you should be in love.'
`Be it then,' said Birkin.
`Give me the object,' said Gerald. `The possibilities of love exhaust themselves.'
`Do they? And then what?'
`Then you die,' said Gerald.
`So you ought,' said Birkin.
`I don't see it,' replied Gerald. He took his hands out of his trousers pockets, and reached for a cigarette. He was tense and nervous. He lit the cigarette over a lamp, reaching forward and drawing steadily. He was dressed for dinner, as usual in the evening, although he was alone.
`There's a third one even to your two,' said Birkin. `Work, love, and fighting. You forget the fight.'
`I suppose I do,' said Gerald. `Did you ever do any boxing --?'
`No, I don't think I did,' said Birkin.
`Ay --' Gerald lifted his head and blew the smoke slowly into the air.
`Why?' said Birkin.
`Nothing. I thought we might have a round. It is perhaps true, that I want something to hit. It's a suggestion.'
`So you think you might as well hit me?' said Birkin.
`You? Well! Perhaps --! In a friendly kind of way, of course.'
`Quite!' said Birkin, bitingly.
Gerald stood leaning back against the mantel-piece. He looked down at Birkin, and his eyes flashed with a sort of terror like the eyes of a stallion, that are bloodshot and overwrought, turned glancing backwards in a stiff terror.
`I fell that if I don't watch myself, I shall find myself doing something silly,' he said.
`Why not do it?' said Birkin coldly.
Gerald listened with quick impatience. He kept glancing down at Birkin, as if looking for something from the other man.
`I used to do some Japanese wrestling,' said Birkin. `A Jap lived in the same house with me in Heidelberg, and he taught me a little. But I was never much good at it.'
`You did!' exclaimed Gerald. `That's one of the things I've never ever seen done. You mean jiu-jitsu, I suppose?'
`Yes. But I am no good at those things -- they don't interest me.'
`They don't? They do me. What's the start?'
`I'll show you what I can, if you like,' said Birkin.
`You will?' A queer, smiling look tightened Gerald's face for a moment, as he said, `Well, I'd like it very much.'
`Then we'll try jiu-jitsu. Only you can't do much in a starched shirt.'
`Then let us strip, and do it properly. Hold a minute --' He rang the bell, and waited for the butler.
`Bring a couple of sandwiches and a syphon,' he said to the man, `and then don't trouble me any more tonight -- or let anybody else.'
The man went. Gerald turned to Birkin with his eyes lighted.
`And you used to wrestle with a Jap?' he said. `Did you strip?'
`Sometimes.'
`You did! What was he like then, as a wrestler?'
`Good, I believe. I am no judge. He was very quick and slippery and full of electric fire. It is a remarkable thing, what a curious sort of fluid force they seem to have in them, those people not like a human grip -- like a polyp --'
Gerald nodded.
`I should imagine so,' he said, `to look at them. They repel me, rather.'
`Repel and attract, both. They are very repulsive when they are cold, and they look grey. But when they are hot and roused, there is a definite attraction -- a curious kind of full electric fluid -- like eels.'
`Well -- yes -- probably.'
The man brought in the tray and set it down.
`Don't come in any more,' said Gerald.
The door closed.
`Well then,' said Gerald; `shall we strip and begin? Will you have a drink first?'
`No, I don't want one.'
`Neither do I.'
Gerald fastened the door and pushed the furniture aside. The room was large, there was plenty of space, it was thickly carpeted. Then he quickly threw off his clothes, and waited for Birkin. The latter, white and thin, came over to him. Birkin was more a presence than a visible object, Gerald was aware of him completely, but not really visually. Whereas Gerald himself was concrete and noticeable, a piece of pure final substance.
`Now,' said Birkin, `I will show you what I learned, and what I remember. You let me take you so --' And his hands closed on the naked body of the other man. In another moment, he had Gerald swung over lightly and balanced against his knee, head downwards. Relaxed, Gerald sprang to his feet with eyes glittering.
`That's smart,' he said. `Now try again.'
So the two men began to struggle together. They were very dissimilar. Birkin was tall and narrow, his bones were very thin and fine. Gerald was much heavier and more plastic. His bones were strong and round, his limbs were rounded, all his contours were beautifully and fully moulded. He seemed to stand with a proper, rich weight on the face of the earth, whilst Birkin seemed to have the centre of gravitation in his own middle. And Gerald had a rich, frictional kind of strength, rather mechanical, but sudden and invincible, whereas Birkin was abstract as to be almost intangible. He impinged invisibly upon the other man, scarcely seeming to touch him, like a garment, and then suddenly piercing in a tense fine grip that seemed to penetrate into the very quick of Gerald's being.
They stopped, they discussed methods, they practised grips and throws, they became accustomed to each other, to each other's rhythm, they got a kind of mutual physical understanding. And then again they had a real struggle. They seemed to drive their white flesh deeper and deeper against each other, as if they would break into a oneness. Birkin had a great subtle energy, that would press upon the other man with an uncanny force, weigh him like a spell put upon him. Then it would pass, and Gerald would heave free, with white, heaving, dazzling movements.
So the two men entwined and wrestled with each other, working nearer and nearer. Both were white and clear, but Gerald flushed smart red where he was touched, and Birkin remained white and tense. He seemed to penetrate into Gerald's more solid, more diffuse bulk, to interfuse his body through the body of the other, as if to bring it subtly into subjection, always seizing with some rapid necromantic fore-knowledge every motion of the other flesh, converting and counteracting it, playing upon the limbs and trunk of Gerald like some hard wind. It was as if Birkin's whole physical intelligence interpenetrated into Gerald's body, as if his fine, sublimated energy entered into the flesh of the fuller man, like some potency, casting a fine net, a prison, through the muscles into the very depths of Gerald's physical being.
So they wrestled swiftly, rapturously, intent and mindless at last, two essential white figures working into a tighter closer oneness of struggle, with a strange, octopus-like knotting and flashing of limbs in the subdued light of the room; a tense white knot of flesh gripped in silence between the walls of old brown books. Now and again came a sharp gasp of breath, or a sound like a sigh, then the rapid thudding of movement on the thickly-carpeted floor, then the strange sound of flesh escaping under flesh. Often, in the white interlaced knot of violent living being that swayed silently, there was no head to be seen, only the swift, tight limbs, the solid white backs, the physical junction of two bodies clinched into oneness. Then would appear the gleaming, ruffled head of Gerald, as the struggle changed, then for a moment the dun-coloured, shadow-like head of the other man would lift up from the conflict, the eyes wide and dreadful and sightless.
At length Gerald lay back inert on the carpet, his breast rising in great slow panting, whilst Birkin kneeled over him, almost unconscious. Birkin was much more exhausted. He caught little, short breaths, he could scarcely breathe any more. The earth seemed to tilt and sway, and a complete darkness was coming over his mind. He did not know what happened. He slid forward quite unconscious, over Gerald, and Gerald did not notice. Then he was half-conscious again, aware only of the strange tilting and sliding of the world. The world was sliding, everything was sliding off into the darkness. And he was sliding, endlessly, endlessly away.
He came to consciousness again, hearing an immense knocking outside. What could be happening, what was it, the great hammer-stroke resounding through the house? He did not know. And then it came to him that it was his own heart beating. But that seemed impossible, the noise was outside. No, it was inside himself, it was his own heart. And the beating was painful, so strained, surcharged. He wondered if Gerald heard it. He did not know whether he were standing or lying or falling.
When he realised that he had fallen prostrate upon Gerald's body he wondered, he was surprised. But he sat up, steadying himself with his hand and waiting for his heart to become stiller and less painful. It hurt very much, and took away his consciousness.
Gerald however was still less conscious than Birkin. They waited dimly, in a sort of not-being, for many uncounted, unknown minutes.
`Of course --' panted Gerald, `I didn't have to be rough -- with you -- I had to keep back -- my force --'
Birkin heard the sound as if his own spirit stood behind him, outside him, and listened to it. His body was in a trance of exhaustion, his spirit heard thinly. His body could not answer. Only he knew his heart was getting quieter. He was divided entirely between his spirit, which stood outside, and knew, and his body, that was a plunging, unconscious stroke of blood.
`I could have thrown you -- using violence --' panted Gerald. `But you beat me right enough.'
`Yes,' said Birkin, hardening his throat and producing the words in the tension there, `you're much stronger than I -- you could beat me -easily.'
Then he relaxed again to the terrible plunging of his heart and his blood.
`It surprised me,' panted Gerald, `what strength you've got. Almost supernatural.'
`For a moment,' said Birkin.
He still heard as if it were his own disembodied spirit hearing, standing at some distance behind him. It drew nearer however, his spirit. And the violent striking of blood in his chest was sinking quieter, allowing his mind to come back. He realised that he was leaning with all his weight on the soft body of the other man. It startled him, because he thought he had withdrawn. He recovered himself, and sat up. But he was still vague and unestablished. He put out his hand to steady himself. It touched the hand of Gerald, that was lying out on the floor. And Gerald's hand closed warm and sudden over Birkin's, they remained exhausted and breathless, the one hand clasped closely over the other. It was Birkin whose hand, in swift response, had closed in a strong, warm clasp over the hand of the other. Gerald's clasp had been sudden and momentaneous.
The normal consciousness however was returning, ebbing back. Birkin could breathe almost naturally again. Gerald's hand slowly withdrew, Birkin slowly, dazedly rose to his feet and went towards the table. He poured out a whiskey and soda. Gerald also came for a drink.
`It was a real set-to, wasn't it?' said Birkin, looking at Gerald with darkened eyes.
`God, yes,' said Gerald. He looked at the delicate body of the other man, and added: `It wasn't too much for you, was it?'
`No. One ought to wrestle and strive and be physically close. It makes one sane.'
`You do think so?'
`I do. Don't you?'
`Yes,' said Gerald.
There were long spaces of silence between their words. The wrestling had some deep meaning to them -- an unfinished meaning.
`We are mentally, spiritually intimate, therefore we should be more or less physically intimate too -- it is more whole.'
`Certainly it is,' said Gerald. Then he laughed pleasantly, adding: `It's rather wonderful to me.' He stretched out his arms handsomely.
`Yes,' said Birkin. `I don't know why one should have to justify oneself.'
`No.'
The two men began to dress.
`I think also that you are beautiful,' said Birkin to Gerald, `and that is enjoyable too. One should enjoy what is given.'
`You think I am beautiful -- how do you mean, physically?' asked Gerald, his eyes glistening.
`Yes. You have a northern kind of beauty, like light refracted from snow -and a beautiful, plastic form. Yes, that is there to enjoy as well. We should enjoy everything.'
Gerald laughed in his throat, and said:
`That's certainly one way of looking at it. I can say this much, I feel better. It has certainly helped me. Is this the Bruderschaft you wanted?'
`Perhaps. Do you think this pledges anything?'
`I don't know,' laughed Gerald.
`At any rate, one feels freer and more open now -- and that is what we want.'
`Certainly,' said Gerald.
They drew to the fire, with the decanters and the glasses and the food.
`I always eat a little before I go to bed,' said Gerald. `I sleep better.'
`I should not sleep so well,' said Birkin.
`No? There you are, we are not alike. I'll put a dressing-gown on.' Birkin remained alone, looking at the fire. His mind had reverted to Ursula. She seemed to return again into his consciousness. Gerald came down wearing a gown of broad-barred, thick black-and-green silk, brilliant and striking.
`You are very fine,' said Birkin, looking at the full robe.
`It was a caftan in Bokhara,' said Gerald. `I like it.'
`I like it too.'
Birkin was silent, thinking how scrupulous Gerald was in his attire, how expensive too. He wore silk socks, and studs of fine workmanship, and silk underclothing, and silk braces. Curious! This was another of the differences between them. Birkin was careless and unimaginative about his own appearance.
`Of course you,' said Gerald, as if he had been thinking; `there's something curious about you. You're curiously strong. One doesn't expect it, it is rather surprising.'
Birkin laughed. He was looking at the handsome figure of the other man, blond and comely in the rich robe, and he was half thinking of the difference between it and himself -- so different; as far, perhaps, apart as man from woman, yet in another direction. But really it was Ursula, it was the woman who was gaining ascendance over Birkin's being, at this moment. Gerald was becoming dim again, lapsing out of him.
`Do you know,' he said suddenly, `I went and proposed to Ursula Brangwen tonight, that she should marry me.'
He saw the blank shining wonder come over Gerald's face.
`You did?'
`Yes. Almost formally -- speaking first to her father, as it should be, in the world -- though that was accident -- or mischief.'
Gerald only stared in wonder, as if he did not grasp.
`You don't mean to say that you seriously went and asked her father to let you marry her?'
`Yes,' said Birkin, `I did.'
`What, had you spoken to her before about it, then?'
`No, not a word. I suddenly thought I would go there and ask her -- and her father happened to come instead of her -- so I asked him first.'
`If you could have her?' concluded Gerald.
`Ye-es, that.'
`And you didn't speak to her?'
`Yes. She came in afterwards. So it was put to her as well.'
`It was! And what did she say then? You're an engaged man?'
`No, -- she only said she didn't want to be bullied into answering.'
`She what?'
`Said she didn't want to be bullied into answering.'
`"Said she didn't want to be bullied into answering!" Why, what did she mean by that?'
Birkin raised his shoulders. `Can't say,' he answered. `Didn't want to be bothered just then, I suppose.'
`But is this really so? And what did you do then?'
`I walked out of the house and came here.'
`You came straight here?'
`Yes.'
Gerald stared in amazement and amusement. He could not take it in.
`But is this really true, as you say it now?'
`Word for word.'
`It is?'
He leaned back in his chair, filled with delight and amusement.
`Well, that's good,' he said. `And so you came here to wrestle with your good angel, did you?'
`Did I?' said Birkin.
`Well, it looks like it. Isn't that what you did?'
Now Birkin could not follow Gerald's meaning.
`And what's going to happen?' said Gerald. `You're going to keep open the proposition, so to speak?'
`I suppose so. I vowed to myself I would see them all to the devil. But I suppose I shall ask her again, in a little while.'
Gerald watched him steadily.
`So you're fond of her then?' he asked.
`I think -- I love her,' said Birkin, his face going very still and fixed.
Gerald glistened for a moment with pleasure, as if it were something done specially to please him. Then his face assumed a fitting gravity, and he nodded his head slowly.
`You know,' he said, `I always believed in love -- true love. But where does one find it nowadays?'
`I don't know,' said Birkin.
`Very rarely,' said Gerald. Then, after a pause, `I've never felt it myself -- not what I should call love. I've gone after women -- and been keen enough over some of them. But I've never felt love. I don't believe I've ever felt as much love for a woman, as I have for you -- not love. You understand what I mean?'
`Yes. I'm sure you've never loved a woman.'
`You feel that, do you? And do you think I ever shall? You understand what I mean?' He put his hand to his breast, closing his fist there, as if he would draw something out. `I mean that -- that I can't express what it is, but I know it.'
`What is it, then?' asked Birkin.
`You see, I can't put it into words. I mean, at any rate, something abiding, something that can't change --'
His eyes were bright and puzzled.
`Now do you think I shall ever feel that for a woman?' he said, anxiously.
Birkin looked at him, and shook his head.
`I don't know,' he said. `I could not say.'
Gerald had been on the qui vive, as awaiting his fate. Now he drew back in his chair.
`No,' he said, `and neither do I, and neither do I.'
`We are different, you and I,' said Birkin. `I can't tell your life.'
`No,' said Gerald, `no more can I. But I tell you -- I begin to doubt it!'
`That you will ever love a woman?'
`Well -- yes -- what you would truly call love --'
`You doubt it?'
`Well -- I begin to.'
There was a long pause.
`Life has all kinds of things,' said Birkin. `There isn't only one road.'
`Yes, I believe that too. I believe it. And mind you, I don't care how it is with me -- I don't care how it is -- so long as I don't feel --' he paused, and a blank, barren look passed over his face, to express his feeling -- `so long as I feel I've lived, somehow -- and I don't care how it is -- but I want to feel that --'
`Fulfilled,' said Birkin.
`We-ell, perhaps it is fulfilled; I don't use the same words as you.'
`It is the same.'
 
求婚失败后,伯金气急败坏地从贝多弗逃了出来。他觉得自己是个十足的傻瓜,整个经过纯粹是一场闹剧。当然他也并不觉得有什么不安。令他深感气愤的是厄秀拉总没完没了地大叫:“你为什么要欺负我?”那口气着实无礼,说话时还显得很得意、满不在乎。
他径直朝肖特兰兹走去。杰拉德正背对着壁炉站在书房里,他纹丝不动,象一个内心十分空虚的人那样焦躁不安。他做了该做的一切,现在什么事都没有了。他可以坐车出门儿,可以到城里去。可他既不想坐车出门,也不想进城,不想去拜访席尔比家。他现有很茫然,很迟钝,就象一台失去动力的机器一样。
杰拉德为此深感痛苦,他以前总是没完没了地忙于事务,从不知烦恼为何物。现在,一切似乎都停止了。他不想再做任何事,他心中某种死去的东西拒绝回应任何建议。他绞尽脑汁想着如何把自己从这种虚无的痛苦中解救出来,如何解脱这种空洞对他的压抑。只有三件事可以令他复活。一是吸印度大麻制成的麻醉品,二是得到伯金的抚慰,三是女人。现在没人同他一起吸麻醉品,也没有女人,伯金也出门了。没事可干,只能一人独自忍受空虚的重负。
一看到伯金,他的脸上一下子就亮起一个奇妙的微笑。
“天啊,卢伯特,”他说,“我正在想世界上最厉害的就是有人消弱别人的锋芒,这人就是你。”
他看伯金时眼中的笑意是惊人的,它表明一种纯粹的释然。他脸色苍白,甚至十分憔悴。
“你指的是女人吧?”伯金轻蔑地说。
“当然要有所选择,不行的话,一个有趣儿的男人亦可。”
说着他笑了。伯金紧靠着壁炉坐下来。
“你在干什么?”
“我,没干什么。我一直很不好过。事事都令人不安,搞得我既不能工作又无法娱乐。可以说我不知道这是否是衰老的迹象。”
“你是说你感到厌倦了?”
“厌倦,我不知道。我无法安下心来。我还感到我心中的魔鬼不是活着就是死了。”
伯金扫视他一眼,然后看着他的眼睛说:
“你应该试图专心致志。”
杰拉德笑道:
“也许会,只要有什么值得我这样做。”
“对呀!”伯金柔声地说。双方沉默着,相互感知着对方。
“要等待才行。”伯金说。
“天啊!等待!我们等什么呢?”
“有的老家伙说消除烦恼有三个办法:睡觉,喝酒和旅游。”伯金说。
“全是些没用的办法,”杰拉德说,“睡觉时做梦,喝了酒就骂人,旅游时你得冲脚夫大喊大叫。不行,这样不行。工作和爱才是出路。当你不工作时,你就应该恋爱。”
“那就这样吧。”伯金说。
“给我一个目标,”杰拉德说:“爱的可能性足以使爱消耗殆尽。”
“是吗?然后又会怎么样?”
“然后你就会死。”杰拉德说。
“你才应该这样。”伯金说。
“我倒看不出,”杰拉德说着手从裤兜中伸出来去拿香烟。他十分紧张。他在油灯上点着烟卷儿,前前后后缓缓地踱着步。尽管他孤身一人,他还是象往常一样衣冠楚楚准备用膳。
“除了你那两种办法以外,还有第三种办法,”伯金说,“工作,爱和打斗。你忘了这一点。”
“我想我没有忘记,”杰拉德说,“你练拳吗?”
“不,我不练。”伯金说。
“嗨——”杰拉德抬起头,向空中吐着烟圈。
“怎么了?”伯金问。
“没什么,我正想跟你来一场拳赛。说真的,我需要向什么东西出击。这是个主意。”
“所以你想倒不如揍我一顿的好,是吗?”伯金问。
“你?嚯!也许是!当然是友好地打一场。”
“行啊!”伯金刻薄的说。
杰拉德向后斜靠着壁炉台。他低头看着伯金,眼睛象种马的眼睛一样激动地充着血、闪着恐怖的光芒。
“我觉得我管不住自己了,我会干出傻事来的。”杰拉德说。
“能不做傻事吗?”伯金冷冷地问。
杰拉德很不耐烦地听着。他俯视着伯金,似乎要从他身上看出什么来。
“我曾学过日本式摔跤,”伯金说,“在海德堡时我同一位日本人同住一室,他教过我几招。可我总也不行。”
“你学过!”杰拉德叫道,“我从来没见人用这种方法摔跤。
你搬的是柔道吧?”
“对,不过我不行,对那不感兴趣。”
“是吗?我可是感兴趣。怎么开头儿?”
“如果你喜欢我就表演给你看。”伯金说。
“你会吗?”杰拉德脸上堆起笑说,“好,我很喜欢这样。”
“那咱们就试试柔道吧。不过你穿着浆过的衣服可做不了几个动作。”
“那就脱了衣服好好做。等一会儿——”他按了下铃唤来男仆,吩咐道:
“弄几块三明治,来瓶苏打水,然后今晚就不要来了,告诉别人也别来。”
男仆走了。杰拉德目光炯炯地看着伯金问:
“你跟日本人摔过跤?也不穿衣服?”
“有时这样。”
“是吗?他是个运动员吗?”
“可能是吧。不过我可不是裁判。他很敏捷、灵活,具有电火一般的力量。他那种运力法可真叫绝,简直不象人,倒象珊瑚虫。”
杰拉德点点头。
“可以想象得出来,”他说,“不过,那样子让我有点反感。”
“反感,也被吸引。当他们冷漠阴郁的时候可令人反感了。可他们热情的时候他们却是迷人的,的确迷人,就象黄鳝一样油滑。”
“嗯,很可能。”
男仆端来盘子放下。
“别再进来了。”杰拉德说。
门关上了。
“好吧,咱们脱衣服,开始吧。你先喝点什么好吗?”
“不,我不想喝。”
“我也不想。”
杰拉德关紧门,把屋里的家具挪动了一下。房间很大,有足够的空间,铺着厚厚的地毯。杰拉德迅速甩掉衣服,等着伯金。又白又瘦的伯金走了过来。他简直象个精灵;让人看不见摸不着。杰拉德完全可以感觉到他的存在,但并未真正看见他。杰拉德倒是个实实在在的,可以看得见的实体。
“现在,”伯金说,“让我表演一下我学到的东西,记住多少表演多少。来,你让我这样抓住你——”说着他的手抓住了杰拉德的裸体。说话间他轻轻扳倒杰拉德,用自己的膝盖托住他,他的头朝下垂直。放开他以后,杰拉德目光炯炯地站了起来。
“很好,”他说,“再来一次吧。”
两个人就这样扭打起来。他们两人太不一样。伯金又瘦又高,骨架很窄很纤细。杰拉德则很有块头,很有雕塑感。他的骨架粗大,四肢肌肉发达,整个人的轮廓看上去漂亮、健壮。他似乎很有重量地压在地面上,而伯金似乎腰部蕴藏着吸引力。杰拉德则有一种强大的磨擦力,很象机器,但力量来得突然,让人难以看出。而伯金则虚无缥缈,几乎令人无法捉摸。他隐附在另一个人身上,象一件衣服一样似乎没怎么触到杰拉德,但又似乎突如其来地直刺入杰拉德的致命处。
他们停下来切磋技艺,练习着抓举和抛开,渐渐变得能够相互适应各自的节奏、获得了彼此体力上的协调。然后他们正式较量了一番。他们似乎都在试图嵌进对方白色的肉体中去,就象要变成一体一样。伯金拥有某种极微妙的力量,就象咒语在他身上发生了效力。松开手之后,杰拉德长出一口气,感到头晕目眩,喘息着。
他们二人就这样扭打在一起,愈贴愈近。两个人皮肤都很白皙,杰拉德身上所触之处开始泛红,可伯金仍然很紧张,尽管身上还没有红。他似乎要嵌入杰拉德那坚实宽阔的躯体中,与他的躯体溶为一体。伯金凭着某种妖术般的预知迅速地掌握了另一条躯体的每一个动作,从而能够扭转它,与它对抗,微妙地控制它,象强风一样动摇着杰拉德的四肢。似乎伯金那充满智慧的肉体刺进了杰拉德的躯体,他纤弱、高尚的体能进入了杰拉德那强壮的皮肉中,似一种潜能透过肌肉在杰拉德肉体的深处投下了一张精织的网,筑起一座监狱。
他们就这样迅速、发疯般地扭打着,最终他们都全神贯注、一心一意起来,两个白白的躯体扭打着愈来愈紧地抱成一团,微弱的灯影里他们的四肢象章鱼一样纠缠、闪动着;只见装满褐色旧书的书柜中间有一团白色的肉体静静地扭作一团。不时传来重重的喘息或叹气声。忽而厚厚的地毯上响起急促的脚步声,忽而又响起一个肉体挣脱另一个肉体奇怪的磨擦声。这团默默飞旋着的剧烈扭动的肉体中难以看到他们的头,只能看到飞快转动着的四肢和坚实的白色脊梁,两具肉体扭成一体了。随着扭打姿式的变动,杰拉德那毛发零乱、闪光的头露了出来,然后伯金那长着褐色头发的头颅抬了起来,双眼大睁着,露出恐惧的神色。
最后杰拉德终于直挺挺地躺倒在地毯上,胸脯随着喘息起伏着,伯金跪在他身边,几乎失去了知觉。伯金比杰拉德的消耗更大,他急促地喘着气,都快喘不上来了。地板似乎在倾斜、在晃动,头脑中一片黑暗。他不知道发生了什么事。他毫无意识地向杰拉德倾倒过去,而杰拉德却没注意。然后他有点清醒了,他只感到世界在奇怪地倾斜、滑动着。整个世界在滑动,一切都滑向黑暗。他也滑动着,无休止地滑动着。
他又一次清醒过来,听到外面有重重的敲动。这是什么?是什么锤子在敲打?这声音震动了整个房间。他不知道这是什么声音。过了一会儿他弄明白了,这是他的心在跳动。可这似乎不可能,这声音是来自外面啊。不,这声音来自体内,这是他的心。这心跳得很痛苦,它过于紧张,负担又太重。他在想杰拉德是否听到了这心跳。他不知道他是站着、躺着还是摔倒了。
当他发现自己是疲惫地倒在杰拉德身上时,他大吃一惊。他坐起来,双手扶地稳住身体,让自己的心渐渐稳定下来,痛苦稍稍减缓一点。心疼得厉害,他失去了意识。
杰拉德比伯金更昏昏然,他在某种死也似的浑沌中持续了好久。
“按说,”杰拉德喘着气说,“我不应该太粗暴,我应该收敛些。”
伯金似乎早已灵魂出壳,他听到了杰拉德在说什么。他已经精疲力竭,杰拉德的声音听起来很微弱,他的躯体一点反应也没有,他唯一知道的是,他的心安静了许多。他的精神与肉体早已分离,精神早已超脱于体外。他知道他对体内奔腾着的血液毫无知觉。
“我本可以用力把你甩开,”杰拉德喘息道。“可是你把我打得够呛。”
“是啊,”伯金粗着嗓音紧张地说,“你比我壮多了,你完全可以轻而易举地打败我。”
说完他又沉默了,心仍在突突跳,血仍在冲撞血管。
“让我吃惊的是,”杰拉德喘着说,“你那股劲儿是超自然的。”
“也就那么一会儿。”伯金说。
他仍能听得到说话声,似乎那是他分离出去的精神在倾听着,在他身后的远方倾听。不过他的精神愈来愈近了。胸膛里猛烈撞动着的血液渐渐舒缓了,允许他的理智回归。他意识到他全部身体的重量都靠在另一个人身上。他吃了一惊,原以为自己早就离开杰拉德了。他振作精神坐了起来。可他仍旧恍恍惚惚的,心神不定。他伸出手支撑着身体稳定下来,他的手碰到了杰拉德伸在地板上的手,杰拉德热乎乎的手突然握住伯金的手,他们手拉着手喘着气,疲劳极了。伯金的手立即有了反应,用力、热烈地握紧了对方的手。
他们渐渐恢复了知觉。伯金可以自然的呼吸了。杰拉德的手缓缓地缩了回去。伯金恍惚地站起身向桌子走去,斟了一杯威士苏忌打水。杰拉德也过来喝饮料。
“这是一场真正的角斗,不是吗?”伯金黑黑的眼睛看着他说。
“是啊,”杰拉德看着伯金柔弱的身体又说:“对你来说还不算厉害吧,嗯?”
“不。人应该角力,争斗,赤手相拼。这让人更健全些。”
“是吗?”
“我是这么想的,你呢?”
“我也是这么想的,”杰拉德说。
他们许久没有说话。一场角斗对他们来说意义深远,令人回味无穷。
“我们在精神上很密切,因此,我们多多少少在肉体上也应该密切些,这样才更完整。”
“当然了,”杰拉德说。然后他高兴地笑着补充道:“我觉得这很美好。”说着他很优美地伸展开双臂。
“就是,”伯金说。“我觉得人不该为自己辩解什么。”
“对。”
他们开始穿上衣服。
“我觉得你挺帅的,”伯金对杰拉德说,“这给人一种享受。
人应该会欣赏。”
“你觉得我帅,什么意思,指我的体格吗?”杰拉德目光闪烁着说。
“是的。你有一种北方人的美,就象白雪折射的光芒,另外,你的体型有一种雕塑感。让人看着感到是一种享受。我们应该欣赏一切。”
杰拉德笑道:
“当然这是一种看法。我可以这样说,我感觉不错这对我帮助很大。这就是你需要的那种‘血谊兄弟’吗?”
“或许是。这已经说明一切了,对吗?”
“我不知道。”杰拉德笑道。
“不管怎么说,我们感到更自由、更开诚布公了,我们需要的就是这个。”
“对,”杰拉德说。
说话间他们带着长颈水瓶,水杯和吃食靠近了壁炉。
“睡前我总要吃点什么。”杰拉德说,“那样睡起来才香甜。”
“我可睡不了那么香甜。”伯金说。
“不吗?你瞧,这一点上我们就不一样。我这就去换上睡衣。”
他走了,伯金一个人守在壁炉前。他开始想厄秀拉了,她似乎回到了他的意识中。杰拉德身穿宽条睡袍下楼来了,睡袍是绸子做的,黑绿条子相间,颜色耀眼得很。
“你可真神气,”伯金看着睡衣上长长的带子说。
“这是布哈拉式睡袍,”杰拉德说,“我挺喜欢穿它。”
“我也喜欢它。”
伯金沉默了,杰拉德的服饰很精细,很昂贵,他想。他穿着丝短袜,纽扣很精美,内衣和背带也是丝的。真怪!这是他们之间的又一不同之处。伯金的穿着很随便,没什么花样。
“当然,”杰拉德若有所思地说,“你有点怪,你怎么会那么强壮,真出乎人意料,让人吃惊。”
伯金笑了。他看着杰拉德健美的身躯,身着富贵的睡袍,白皮肤,碧眼金发,人显得很帅。他看着杰拉德,想着他们之间的不同之处,太不一样了。当然不象男人和女人那样有所区别,但很不同。此时此刻,厄秀拉这个女人以优势压倒了他。而杰拉德则变得模糊了,埋没了。
“知道吗,”他突然说,“我今天晚上去向厄秀拉·布朗温求婚了,求她嫁给我。”
他看到杰拉德脸上露着惊异、茫然的表情。
“是吗?”
“是的。有点正式——先对她父亲讲了,按礼应该这样,不过这也有点偶然,或说是个恶作剧吧。”
杰拉德惊奇地凝视他,似乎还不明白。
“你是否在说你很严肃地求她爸爸让他把女儿嫁给你?”
“是的,是这样。”伯金说。
“那么,你以前对她说过这事吗?”
“没有,只字未提。我突然心血来潮要去找她,碰巧她父亲在家,所以我就先问了他。
“问他你是否可以娶她?”
“是——的,就是那么说的。”
“你没跟她说吗?”
“说了。她后来回来了。我就对她也说了。”
“真的!她怎么说?你们订婚了?”
“没有,她只是说她不要被迫答应。”
“她说什么?”
“说她不想被迫答应。”
“‘说她不想被迫答应!’怎么回事,她这是什么意思?”
伯金耸耸肩说:“不知道,我想她现在不想找麻烦吧。”
“真是这样吗?那你怎么办?”
“我走出来就到你这儿来了。”
“直接来的吗?”
“是的。”
杰拉德好奇,好笑地看着他。他无法相信。
“真象你说的这样吗?”
“千真万确。”
“是这样。”
他靠在椅子上,心中实在感到有趣儿。
“这很好嘛,”他说,“所以你就来同你的守护神角斗?”
“是吗?”伯金说。
“对,看上去是这样,难道这不是你的所做所为吗?”
现在伯金无法理解杰拉德的意思了。
“结果会怎样?”杰拉德说,“你要公开求婚才行。”
“我想我会的。我发誓要坚持到底。我很快就要再次向她求婚。”
杰拉德目不转睛地盯着他。
“那说明你喜欢她喽?”他问。
“我想,我是爱她的。”伯金说着脸色变严峻起来。
杰拉德一时间感到很痛快,似乎这件事儿是专为讨好他而做的。然后他的神情严肃起来,缓缓地点头道:
“你知道,我一直相信爱情——真正的爱情。可如今哪儿才有真正的爱?”
“我不知道。”伯金说。
“极少见,”杰拉德说。停了片刻他又说:“我从来对此没有感受,不知道那是否叫爱情。我追求女人,对某些人很感兴趣。可我从未感受到爱。我不相信我象爱你那样爱过女人——不是爱。你明白我的意思吗?”
“是的,我相信你从未爱过女人。”
“你有所感觉,是吗?你以为我以后会吗?你明白我的意思?”说着他手握成拳放在胸脯上,似乎要把心都掏出来。
“我是说,我说不清这是什么,不过我知道。”
“那是什么呢?”伯金问。
“你看,我无法用语言表达。我是说,不管怎么说,这是某种必必遵守的东西,某种无法改变的东西。”
他的目光明亮,但神情很窘惑。
“你觉得我对女人会产生那种感情吗?”他不安地问。
伯金看着他摇摇头。
“我不知道,说不清。”
杰拉德一直保持着警觉,等待着自己的命运。现在他坐回自己的椅子中去。
“不,”他说,“你我都不会。”
“我们不一样,你和我,”伯金说,“我无法给你算命。”
“是啊,”杰拉德说,“我也不能。可是,跟你说吧,我开始怀疑了。”
“怀疑你是否会爱女人?”
“嗯,是的,就是你说的真正的爱。”
“你怀疑吗?”
“开始怀疑。”
一阵很长的沉默。
“生活中什么事都有,”伯金说,“并非只有一条路。”
“对,我也相信这一点,相信。但我不在乎我的爱如何如何——不管它,我反正没感觉到爱——”他不说了,脸上露出茫然的神态。“只要我还活着,它爱怎样怎样,可是我的确想感受到——”
“满足。”伯金说。
“是——是的,或许已经满足了。我的说法同你不一样。”
“但指的是一回事。”
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

゛臉紅紅....

ZxID:704295


等级: 内阁元老
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
举报 只看该作者 21楼  发表于: 2013-10-29 0
。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 21 Threshold


GUDRUN WAS AWAY in London, having a little show of her work, with a friend, and looking round, preparing for flight from Beldover. Come what might she would be on the wing in a very short time. She received a letter from Winifred Crich, ornamented with drawings.
`Father also has been to London, to be examined by the doctors. It made him very tired. They say he must rest a very great deal, so he is mostly in bed. He brought me a lovely tropical parrot in faience, of Dresden ware, also a man ploughing, and two mice climbing up a stalk, also in faience. The mice were Copenhagen ware. They are the best, but mice don't shine so much, otherwise they are very good, their tails are slim and long. They all shine nearly like glass. Of course it is the glaze, but I don't like it. Gerald likes the man ploughing the best, his trousers are torn, he is ploughing with an ox, being I suppose a German peasant. It is all grey and white, white shirt and grey trousers, but very shiny and clean. Mr Birkin likes the girl best, under the hawthorn blossom, with a lamb, and with daffodils painted on her skirts, in the drawing room. But that is silly, because the lamb is not a real lamb, and she is silly too.
`Dear Miss Brangwen, are you coming back soon, you are very much missed here. I enclose a drawing of father sitting up in bed. He says he hopes you are not going to forsake us. Oh dear Miss Brangwen, I am sure you won't. Do come back and draw the ferrets, they are the most lovely noble darlings in the world. We might carve them in holly-wood, playing against a background of green leaves. Oh do let us, for they are most beautiful.
`Father says we might have a studio. Gerald says we could easily have a beautiful one over the stables, it would only need windows to be put in the slant of the roof, which is a simple matter. Then you could stay here all day and work, and we could live in the studio, like two real artists, like the man in the picture in the hall, with the frying-pan and the walls all covered with drawings. I long to be free, to live the free life of an artist. Even Gerald told father that only an artist is free, because he lives in a creative world of his own --'
Gudrun caught the drift of the family intentions, in this letter. Gerald wanted her to be attached to the household at Shortlands, he was using Winifred as his stalking-horse. The father thought only of his child, he saw a rock of salvation in Gudrun. And Gudrun admired him for his perspicacity. The child, moreover, was really exceptional. Gudrun was quite content. She was quite willing, given a studio, to spend her days at Shortlands. She disliked the Grammar School already thoroughly, she wanted to be free. If a studio were provided, she would be free to go on with her work, she would await the turn of events with complete serenity. And she was really interested in Winifred, she would be quite glad to understand the girl.
So there was quite a little festivity on Winifred's account, the day Gudrun returned to Shortlands.
`You should make a bunch of flowers to give to Miss Brangwen when she arrives,' Gerald said smiling to his sister.
`Oh no,' cried Winifred, `it's silly.'
`Not at all. It is a very charming and ordinary attention.'
`Oh, it is silly,' protested Winifred, with all the extreme mauvaise honte of her years. Nevertheless, the idea appealed to her. She wanted very much to carry it out. She flitted round the green-houses and the conservatory looking wistfully at the flowers on their stems. And the more she looked, the more she longed to have a bunch of the blossoms she saw, the more fascinated she became with her little vision of ceremony, and the more consumedly shy and self-conscious she grew, till she was almost beside herself. She could not get the idea out of her mind. It was as if some haunting challenge prompted her, and she had not enough courage to take it up. So again she drifted into the green-houses, looking at the lovely roses in their pots, and at the virginal cyclamens, and at the mystic white clusters of a creeper. The beauty, oh the beauty of them, and oh the paradisal bliss, if she should have a perfect bouquet and could give it to Gudrun the next day. Her passion and her complete indecision almost made her ill.
At last she slid to her father's side.
`Daddie --' she said.
`What, my precious?'
But she hung back, the tears almost coming to her eyes, in her sensitive confusion. Her father looked at her, and his heart ran hot with tenderness, an anguish of poignant love.
`What do you want to say to me, my love?'
`Daddie -- !' her eyes smiled laconically -- `isn't it silly if I give Miss Brangwen some flowers when she comes?'
The sick man looked at the bright, knowing eyes of his child, and his heart burned with love.
`No, darling, that's not silly. It's what they do to queens.'
This was not very reassuring to Winifred. She half suspected that queens in themselves were a silliness. Yet she so wanted her little romantic occasion.
`Shall I then?' she asked.
`Give Miss Brangwen some flowers? Do, Birdie. Tell Wilson I say you are to have what you want.'
The child smiled a small, subtle, unconscious smile to herself, in anticipation of her way.
`But I won't get them till tomorrow,' she said.
`Not till tomorrow, Birdie. Give me a kiss then --'
Winifred silently kissed the sick man, and drifted out of the room. She again went the round of the green-houses and the conservatory, informing the gardener, in her high, peremptory, simple fashion, of what she wanted, telling him all the blooms she had selected.
`What do you want these for?' Wilson asked.
`I want them,' she said. She wished servants did not ask questions.
`Ay, you've said as much. But what do you want them for, for decoration, or to send away, or what?'
`I want them for a presentation bouquet.'
`A presentation bouquet! Who's coming then? -- the Duchess of Portland?'
`No.'
`Oh, not her? Well you'll have a rare poppy-show if you put all the things you've mentioned into your bouquet.'
`Yes, I want a rare poppy-show.'
`You do! Then there's no more to be said.'
The next day Winifred, in a dress of silvery velvet, and holding a gaudy bunch of flowers in her hand, waited with keen impatience in the schoolroom, looking down the drive for Gudrun's arrival. It was a wet morning. Under her nose was the strange fragrance of hot-house flowers, the bunch was like a little fire to her, she seemed to have a strange new fire in her heart. This slight sense of romance stirred her like an intoxicant.
At last she saw Gudrun coming, and she ran downstairs to warn her father and Gerald. They, laughing at her anxiety and gravity, came with her into the hall. The man-servant came hastening to the door, and there he was, relieving Gudrun of her umbrella, and then of her raincoat. The welcoming party hung back till their visitor entered the hall.
Gudrun was flushed with the rain, her hair was blown in loose little curls, she was like a flower just opened in the rain, the heart of the blossom just newly visible, seeming to emit a warmth of retained sunshine. Gerald winced in spirit, seeing her so beautiful and unknown. She was wearing a soft blue dress, and her stockings were of dark red.
Winifred advanced with odd, stately formality.
`We are so glad you've come back,' she said. `These are your flowers.' She presented the bouquet.
`Mine!' cried Gudrun. She was suspended for a moment, then a vivid flush went over her, she was as if blinded for a moment with a flame of pleasure. Then her eyes, strange and flaming, lifted and looked at the father, and at Gerald. And again Gerald shrank in spirit, as if it would be more than he could bear, as her hot, exposed eyes rested on him. There was something so revealed, she was revealed beyond bearing, to his eyes. He turned his face aside. And he felt he would not be able to avert her. And he writhed under the imprisonment.
Gudrun put her face into the flowers.
`But how beautiful they are!' she said, in a muffled voice. Then, with a strange, suddenly revealed passion, she stooped and kissed Winifred.
Mr Crich went forward with his hand held out to her.
`I was afraid you were going to run away from us,' he said, playfully.
Gudrun looked up at him with a luminous, roguish, unknown face.
`Really!' she replied. `No, I didn't want to stay in London.' Her voice seemed to imply that she was glad to get back to Shortlands, her tone was warm and subtly caressing.
`That is a good thing,' smiled the father. `You see you are very welcome here among us.'
Gudrun only looked into his face with dark-blue, warm, shy eyes. She was unconsciously carried away by her own power.
`And you look as if you came home in every possible triumph,' Mr Crich continued, holding her hand.
`No,' she said, glowing strangely. `I haven't had any triumph till I came here.'
`Ah, come, come! We're not going to hear any of those tales. Haven't we read notices in the newspaper, Gerald?'
`You came off pretty well,' said Gerald to her, shaking hands. `Did you sell anything?'
`No,' she said, `not much.'
`Just as well,' he said.
She wondered what he meant. But she was all aglow with her reception, carried away by this little flattering ceremonial on her behalf.
`Winifred,' said the father, `have you a pair of shoes for Miss Brangwen? You had better change at once --'
Gudrun went out with her bouquet in her hand.
`Quite a remarkable young woman,' said the father to Gerald, when she had gone.
`Yes,' replied Gerald briefly, as if he did not like the observation.
Mr Crich liked Gudrun to sit with him for half an hour. Usually he was ashy and wretched, with all the life gnawed out of him. But as soon as he rallied, he liked to make believe that he was just as before, quite well and in the midst of life -- not of the outer world, but in the midst of a strong essential life. And to this belief, Gudrun contributed perfectly. With her, he could get by stimulation those precious half-hours of strength and exaltation and pure freedom, when he seemed to live more than he had ever lived.
She came to him as he lay propped up in the library. His face was like yellow wax, his eyes darkened, as it were sightless. His black beard, now streaked with grey, seemed to spring out of the waxy flesh of a corpse. Yet the atmosphere about him was energetic and playful. Gudrun subscribed to this, perfectly. To her fancy, he was just an ordinary man. Only his rather terrible appearance was photographed upon her soul, away beneath her consciousness. She knew that, in spite of his playfulness, his eyes could not change from their darkened vacancy, they were the eyes of a man who is dead.
`Ah, this is Miss Brangwen,' he said, suddenly rousing as she entered, announced by the man-servant. `Thomas, put Miss Brangwen a chair here -- that's right.' He looked at her soft, fresh face with pleasure. It gave him the illusion of life. `Now, you will have a glass of sherry and a little piece of cake. Thomas --'
`No thank you,' said Gudrun. And as soon as she had said it, her heart sank horribly. The sick man seemed to fall into a gap of death, at her contradiction. She ought to play up to him, not to contravene him. In an instant she was smiling her rather roguish smile.
`I don't like sherry very much,' she said. `But I like almost anything else.'
The sick man caught at this straw instantly.
`Not sherry! No! Something else! What then? What is there, Thomas?'
`Port wine -- curacao --'
`I would love some curacao --' said Gudrun, looking at the sick man confidingly.
`You would. Well then Thomas, curacao -- and a little cake, or a biscuit?'
`A biscuit,' said Gudrun. She did not want anything, but she was wise.
`Yes.'
He waited till she was settled with her little glass and her biscuit. Then he was satisfied.
`You have heard the plan,' he said with some excitement, `for a studio for Winifred, over the stables?'
`No!' exclaimed Gudrun, in mock wonder.
`Oh! -- I thought Winnie wrote it to you, in her letter!'
`Oh -- yes -- of course. But I thought perhaps it was only her own little idea --' Gudrun smiled subtly, indulgently. The sick man smiled also, elated.
`Oh no. It is a real project. There is a good room under the roof of the stables -- with sloping rafters. We had thought of converting it into a studio.'
`How very nice that would be!' cried Gudrun, with excited warmth. The thought of the rafters stirred her.
`You think it would? Well, it can be done.'
`But how perfectly splendid for Winifred! Of course, it is just what is needed, if she is to work at all seriously. One must have one's workshop, otherwise one never ceases to be an amateur.'
`Is that so? Yes. Of course, I should like you to share it with Winifred.'
`Thank you so much.'
Gudrun knew all these things already, but she must look shy and very grateful, as if overcome.
`Of course, what I should like best, would be if you could give up your work at the Grammar School, and just avail yourself of the studio, and work there -- well, as much or as little as you liked --'
He looked at Gudrun with dark, vacant eyes. She looked back at him as if full of gratitude. These phrases of a dying man were so complete and natural, coming like echoes through his dead mouth.
`And as to your earnings -- you don't mind taking from me what you have taken from the Education Committee, do you? I don't want you to be a loser.'
`Oh,' said Gudrun, `if I can have the studio and work there, I can earn money enough, really I can.'
`Well,' he said, pleased to be the benefactor, `we can see about all that. You wouldn't mind spending your days here?'
`If there were a studio to work in,' said Gudrun, `I could ask for nothing better.'
`Is that so?'
He was really very pleased. But already he was getting tired. She could see the grey, awful semi-consciousness of mere pain and dissolution coming over him again, the torture coming into the vacancy of his darkened eyes. It was not over yet, this process of death. She rose softly saying:
`Perhaps you will sleep. I must look for Winifred.'
She went out, telling the nurse that she had left him. Day by day the tissue of the sick man was further and further reduced, nearer and nearer the process came, towards the last knot which held the human being in its unity. But this knot was hard and unrelaxed, the will of the dying man never gave way. He might be dead in nine-tenths, yet the remaining tenth remained unchanged, till it too was torn apart. With his will he held the unit of himself firm, but the circle of his power was ever and ever reduced, it would be reduced to a point at last, then swept away.
To adhere to life, he must adhere to human relationships, and he caught at every straw. Winifred, the butler, the nurse, Gudrun, these were the people who meant all to him, in these last resources. Gerald, in his father's presence, stiffened with repulsion. It was so, to a less degree, with all the other children except Winifred. They could not see anything but the death, when they looked at their father. It was as if some subterranean dislike overcame them. They could not see the familiar face, hear the familiar voice. They were overwhelmed by the antipathy of visible and audible death. Gerald could not breathe in his father's presence. He must get out at once. And so, in the same way, the father could not bear the presence of his son. It sent a final irritation through the soul of the dying man.
The studio was made ready, Gudrun and Winifred moved in. They enjoyed so much the ordering and the appointing of it. And now they need hardly be in the house at all. They had their meals in the studio, they lived there safely. For the house was becoming dreadful. There were two nurses in white, flitting silently about, like heralds of death. The father was confined to his bed, there was a come and go of sotto-voce sisters and brothers and children.
Winifred was her father's constant visitor. Every morning, after breakfast, she went into his room when he was washed and propped up in bed, to spend half an hour with him.
`Are you better, Daddie?' she asked him invariably.
And invariably he answered:
`Yes, I think I'm a little better, pet.'
She held his hand in both her own, lovingly and protectively. And this was very dear to him.
She ran in again as a rule at lunch time, to tell him the course of events, and every evening, when the curtains were drawn, and his room was cosy, she spent a long time with him. Gudrun was gone home, Winifred was alone in the house: she liked best to be with her father. They talked and prattled at random, he always as if he were well, just the same as when he was going about. So that Winifred, with a child's subtle instinct for avoiding the painful things, behaved as if nothing serious was the matter. Instinctively, she withheld her attention, and was happy. Yet in her remoter soul, she knew as well as the adults knew: perhaps better.
Her father was quite well in his make-belief with her. But when she went away, he relapsed under the misery of his dissolution. But still there were these bright moments, though as his strength waned, his faculty for attention grew weaker, and the nurse had to send Winifred away, to save him from exhaustion.
He never admitted that he was going to die. He knew it was so, he knew it was the end. Yet even to himself he did not admit it. He hated the fact, mortally. His will was rigid. He could not bear being overcome by death. For him, there was no death. And yet, at times, he felt a great need to cry out and to wail and complain. He would have liked to cry aloud to Gerald, so that his son should be horrified out of his composure. Gerald was instinctively aware of this, and he recoiled, to avoid any such thing. This uncleanness of death repelled him too much. One should die quickly, like the Romans, one should be master of one's fate in dying as in living. He was convulsed in the clasp of this death of his father's, as in the coils of the great serpent of Laocoon. The great serpent had got the father, and the son was dragged into the embrace of horrifying death along with him. He resisted always. And in some strange way, he was a tower of strength to his father.
The last time the dying man asked to see Gudrun he was grey with near death. Yet he must see someone, he must, in the intervals of consciousness, catch into connection with the living world, lest he should have to accept his own situation. Fortunately he was most of his time dazed and half gone. And he spent many hours dimly thinking of the past, as it were, dimly re-living his old experiences. But there were times even to the end when he was capable of realising what was happening to him in the present, the death that was on him. And these were the times when he called in outside help, no matter whose. For to realise this death that he was dying was a death beyond death, never to be borne. It was an admission never to be made.
Gudrun was shocked by his appearance, and by the darkened, almost disintegrated eyes, that still were unconquered and firm.
`Well,' he said in his weakened voice, `and how are you and Winifred getting on?'
`Oh, very well indeed,' replied Gudrun.
There were slight dead gaps in the conversation, as if the ideas called up were only elusive straws floating on the dark chaos of the sick man's dying.
`The studio answers all right?' he said.
`Splendid. It couldn't be more beautiful and perfect,' said Gudrun.
She waited for what he would say next.
`And you think Winifred has the makings of a sculptor?'
It was strange how hollow the words were, meaningless.
`I'm sure she has. She will do good things one day.'
`Ah! Then her life won't be altogether wasted, you think?'
Gudrun was rather surprised.
`Sure it won't!' she exclaimed softly.
`That's right.'
Again Gudrun waited for what he would say.
`You find life pleasant, it is good to live, isn't it?' he asked, with a pitiful faint smile that was almost too much for Gudrun.
`Yes,' she smiled -- she would lie at random -- `I get a pretty good time I believe.'
`That's right. A happy nature is a great asset.'
Again Gudrun smiled, though her soul was dry with repulsion. Did one have to die like this -- having the life extracted forcibly from one, whilst one smiled and made conversation to the end? Was there no other way? Must one go through all the horror of this victory over death, the triumph of the integral will, that would not be broken till it disappeared utterly? One must, it was the only way. She admired the self-possession and the control of the dying man exceedingly. But she loathed the death itself. She was glad the everyday world held good, and she need not recognise anything beyond.
`You are quite all right here? -- nothing we can do for you? -- nothing you find wrong in your position?'
`Except that you are too good to me,' said Gudrun.
`Ah, well, the fault of that lies with yourself,' he said, and he felt a little exultation, that he had made this speech.
He was still so strong and living! But the nausea of death began to creep back on him, in reaction.
Gudrun went away, back to Winifred. Mademoiselle had left, Gudrun stayed a good deal at Shortlands, and a tutor came in to carry on Winifred's education. But he did not live in the house, he was connected with the Grammar School.
One day, Gudrun was to drive with Winifred and Gerald and Birkin to town, in the car. It was a dark, showery day. Winifred and Gudrun were ready and waiting at the door. Winifred was very quiet, but Gudrun had not noticed. Suddenly the child asked, in a voice of unconcern:
`Do you think my father's going to die, Miss Brangwen?'
Gudrun started.
`I don't know,' she replied.
`Don't you truly?'
`Nobody knows for certain. He may die, of course.'
The child pondered a few moments, then she asked:
`But do you think he will die?'
It was put almost like a question in geography or science, insistent, as if she would force an admission from the adult. The watchful, slightly triumphant child was almost diabolical.
`Do I think he will die?' repeated Gudrun. `Yes, I do.'
But Winifred's large eyes were fixed on her, and the girl did not move.
`He is very ill,' said Gudrun.
A small smile came over Winifred's face, subtle and sceptical.
`I don't believe he will,' the child asserted, mockingly, and she moved away into the drive. Gudrun watched the isolated figure, and her heart stood still. Winifred was playing with a little rivulet of water, absorbedly as if nothing had been said.
`I've made a proper dam,' she said, out of the moist distance.
Gerald came to the door from out of the hall behind.
`It is just as well she doesn't choose to believe it,' he said.
Gudrun looked at him. Their eyes met; and they exchanged a sardonic understanding.
`Just as well,' said Gudrun.
He looked at her again, and a fire flickered up in his eyes.
`Best to dance while Rome burns, since it must burn, don't you think?' he said.
She was rather taken aback. But, gathering herself together, she replied:
`Oh -- better dance than wail, certainly.'
`So I think.'
And they both felt the subterranean desire to let go, to fling away everything, and lapse into a sheer unrestraint, brutal and licentious. A strange black passion surged up pure in Gudrun. She felt strong. She felt her hands so strong, as if she could tear the world asunder with them. She remembered the abandonments of Roman licence, and her heart grew hot. She knew she wanted this herself also -- or something, something equivalent. Ah, if that which was unknown and suppressed in her were once let loose, what an orgiastic and satisfying event it would be. And she wanted it, she trembled slightly from the proximity of the man, who stood just behind her, suggestive of the same black licentiousness that rose in herself. She wanted it with him, this unacknowledged frenzy. For a moment the clear perception of this preoccupied her, distinct and perfect in its final reality. Then she shut it off completely, saying:
`We might as well go down to the lodge after Winifred -- we can get in the care there.'
`So we can,' he answered, going with her.
They found Winifred at the lodge admiring the litter of purebred white puppies. The girl looked up, and there was a rather ugly, unseeing cast in her eyes as she turned to Gerald and Gudrun. She did not want to see them.
`Look!' she cried. `Three new puppies! Marshall says this one seems perfect. Isn't it a sweetling? But it isn't so nice as its mother.' She turned to caress the fine white bull-terrier bitch that stood uneasily near her.
`My dearest Lady Crich,' she said, `you are beautiful as an angel on earth. Angel -- angel -- don't you think she's good enough and beautiful enough to go to heaven, Gudrun? They will be in heaven, won't they -- and especially my darling Lady Crich! Mrs Marshall, I say!'
`Yes, Miss Winifred?' said the woman, appearing at the door.
`Oh do call this one Lady Winifred, if she turns out perfect, will you? Do tell Marshall to call it Lady Winifred.'
`I'll tell him -- but I'm afraid that's a gentleman puppy, Miss Winifred.'
`Oh no!' There was the sound of a car. `There's Rupert!' cried the child, and she ran to the gate.
Birkin, driving his car, pulled up outside the lodge gate.
`We're ready!' cried Winifred. `I want to sit in front with you, Rupert. May I?'
`I'm afraid you'll fidget about and fall out,' he said.
`No I won't. I do want to sit in front next to you. It makes my feet so lovely and warm, from the engines.'
Birkin helped her up, amused at sending Gerald to sit by Gudrun in the body of the car.
`Have you any news, Rupert?' Gerald called, as they rushed along the lanes.
`News?' exclaimed Birkin.
`Yes,' Gerald looked at Gudrun, who sat by his side, and he said, his eyes narrowly laughing, `I want to know whether I ought to congratulate him, but I can't get anything definite out of him.'
Gudrun flushed deeply.
`Congratulate him on what?' she asked.
`There was some mention of an engagement -- at least, he said something to me about it.'
Gudrun flushed darkly.
`You mean with Ursula?' she said, in challenge.
`Yes. That is so, isn't it?'
`I don't think there's any engagement,' said Gudrun, coldly.
`That so? Still no developments, Rupert?' he called.
`Where? Matrimonial? No.'
`How's that?' called Gudrun.
Birkin glanced quickly round. There was irritation in his eyes also.
`Why?' he replied. `What do you think of it, Gudrun?'
`Oh,' she cried, determined to fling her stone also into the pool, since they had begun, `I don't think she wants an engagement. Naturally, she's a bird that prefers the bush.' Gudrun's voice was clear and gong-like. It reminded Rupert of her father's, so strong and vibrant.
`And I,' said Birkin, his face playful but yet determined, `I want a binding contract, and am not keen on love, particularly free love.'
They were both amused. Why this public avowal? Gerald seemed suspended a moment, in amusement.
`Love isn't good enough for you?' he called.
`No!' shouted Birkin.
`Ha, well that's being over-refined,' said Gerald, and the car ran through the mud.
`What's the matter, really?' said Gerald, turning to Gudrun.
This was an assumption of a sort of intimacy that irritated Gudrun almost like an affront. It seemed to her that Gerald was deliberately insulting her, and infringing on the decent privacy of them all.
`What is it?' she said, in her high, repellent voice. `Don't ask me! -- I know nothing about ultimate marriage, I assure you: or even penultimate.'
`Only the ordinary unwarrantable brand!' replied Gerald. `Just so -- same here. I am no expert on marriage, and degrees of ultimateness. It seems to be a bee that buzzes loudly in Rupert's bonnet.'
`Exactly! But that is his trouble, exactly! Instead of wanting a woman for herself, he wants his ideas fulfilled. Which, when it comes to actual practice, is not good enough.'
`Oh no. Best go slap for what's womanly in woman, like a bull at a gate.' Then he seemed to glimmer in himself. `You think love is the ticket, do you?' he asked.
`Certainly, while it lasts -- you only can't insist on permanency,' came Gudrun's voice, strident above the noise.
`Marriage or no marriage, ultimate or penultimate or just so-so? -- take the love as you find it.'
`As you please, or as you don't please,' she echoed. `Marriage is a social arrangement, I take it, and has nothing to do with the question of love.'
His eyes were flickering on her all the time. She felt as is he were kissing her freely and malevolently. It made the colour burn in her cheeks, but her heart was quite firm and unfailing.
`You think Rupert is off his head a bit?' Gerald asked.
Her eyes flashed with acknowledgment.
`As regards a woman, yes,' she said, `I do. There is such a thing as two people being in love for the whole of their lives -- perhaps. But marriage is neither here nor there, even then. If they are in love, well and good. If not -- why break eggs about it!'
`Yes,' said Gerald. `That's how it strikes me. But what about Rupert?'
`I can't make out -- neither can he nor anybody. He seems to think that if you marry you can get through marriage into a third heaven, or something -- all very vague.'
`Very! And who wants a third heaven? As a matter of fact, Rupert has a great yearning to be safe -- to tie himself to the mast.'
`Yes. It seems to me he's mistaken there too,' said Gudrun. `I'm sure a mistress is more likely to be faithful than a wife -- just because she is her own mistress. No -- he says he believes that a man and wife can go further than any other two beings -- but where, is not explained. They can know each other, heavenly and hellish, but particularly hellish, so perfectly that they go beyond heaven and hell -- into -- there it all breaks down -- into nowhere.'
`Into Paradise, he says,' laughed Gerald.
Gudrun shrugged her shoulders. `Fe m'en fiche of your Paradise!' she said.
`Not being a Mohammedan,' said Gerald. Birkin sat motionless, driving the car, quite unconscious of what they said. And Gudrun, sitting immediately behind him, felt a sort of ironic pleasure in thus exposing him.
`He says,' she added, with a grimace of irony, `that you can find an eternal equilibrium in marriage, if you accept the unison, and still leave yourself separate, don't try to fuse.'
`Doesn't inspire me,' said Gerald.
`That's just it,' said Gudrun.
`I believe in love, in a real abandon, if you're capable of it,' said Gerald.
`So do I,' said she.
`And so does Rupert, too -- though he is always shouting.'
`No,' said Gudrun. `He won't abandon himself to the other person. You can't be sure of him. That's the trouble I think.'
`Yet he wants marriage! Marriage -- et puis?'
`Le paradis!' mocked Gudrun.
Birkin, as he drove, felt a creeping of the spine, as if somebody was threatening his neck. But he shrugged with indifference. It began to rain. Here was a change. He stopped the car and got down to put up the hood.
 
戈珍在伦敦同一位朋友举办了一个小小的画展,办完以后就找机会回贝多佛。不管发生了什么事,她都会很快变得无忧无虑。那天她收到一封配有图画的信,是温妮弗莱德·克里奇寄来的:
父亲也去伦敦检查病情了。他很疲劳。大家都
说他必须好好休息一下,所以现在他几乎整日卧床。
他给我带来一只上彩釉的热带麻雀,还是德累斯顿的瓷器呢。还有一个耕夫和两只爬杆儿的小老鼠,都是上了彩釉的。小老鼠是哥本哈根的瓷器。这是最
好的瓷器,小老鼠身上的彩釉并不太亮,否则就更好了,它们的尾巴又细又长。这几种东西都象玻璃
一样亮。当然这是釉子的原因,不过我不喜欢。杰拉德最喜欢那个耕田的农夫,他的裤子破了,赶着
牛在耕地,我想这是一位德国农夫。他穿着白衬衫和灰裤子,不过亮度不错。伯金先生喜欢山楂花下
的那位姑娘,她身边有一只羊,裙子上印有水仙花,这件东西摆在客厅里。可我觉得那姑娘有点傻里傻
气的,那羊也不是真的。
“亲爱的布朗温女士,你很快就回来吗?我们可想你了。随信寄上我画的一张画儿,画的是父亲坐
在床上的样子。他说你不会抛弃我们的,哦,亲爱的布朗温小姐,我相信你不会这样的。回来吧,来
画这儿的雪貂吧,这是世界上最可爱,最高尚的宝贝。我们还应该在冬青树上刻上它们,背景就是绿
色的树叶。哦,就这样吧,它们太可爱了。
“父亲说我们应该有一间画室。杰拉德说这很容易,在马厩上就可以,只需在斜屋顶上开一扇窗户
即可。那样的话你就可以整天在边儿做你的事,我们就可以象两个真正的艺术家那样住在这儿,我们
就象厅里挂的那幅画上的人一样,把所有的墙都画上图画。我想要自由,过一种艺术家的生活。杰拉
德对父亲说,一位艺术家是自由的,因为他生活在他自己创造性的世界里——”
通过这封信戈珍弄明白了克里奇家人的意图。杰拉德想让她附属于他们家,他不过是拿温妮弗莱德来打掩护。做父亲的只想到了自己的女儿,认为戈珍可以救温妮。戈珍很羡慕他的智慧。当然温妮的确很不一般,戈珍对她很满意。既然有了画室,戈珍当然很愿意去。她早就厌恶小学校了,她想自由,如果给她提供一间工作室,他就可以自由自在地做她的工作,平静地等待事情的转变。再说她的确对温妮弗莱德感兴趣,她很高兴去理解温妮。
所以当戈珍回到肖特兰兹那天,温妮别提多高兴了。
“布朗温小姐来的时候你应该献给她一束鲜花。”杰拉德笑着对妹妹说。
“啊,不,”温妮弗莱德叫道:“这太冒傻气了。”
“才不呢。这样很好,也很常见。”
“不,这样很傻,”温妮弗莱德羞涩地为自己辩护说。不过她很喜欢这个主意,极想这样做。她在暖室里跑来跑去,寻找着鲜花。越看越想扎一束鲜花,想着献花的仪式,她越想越着迷,也就越来越羞涩,她简直不知该怎么办才好。她无法放弃这种想法。似乎有什么在向她提出挑战而她又没有勇气迎战。于是她又一次溜进暖室,看着花盆里可爱的玫瑰、娇洁的仙客来和神秘的蔓草上一束束的白花儿。太美了,哦,这些花儿太美了,令人太幸福了,如果她能够扎一束漂亮的鲜花送给戈珍该多好啊。她的激情和犹豫几乎让她为难死了。
最终她溜进父亲房中走到他身边说:
“爸爸——”
“什么事,我的宝贝儿?”
可她却向后退着,几乎要哭出来,她真为难。父亲看着她,心中淌过一股温情的热流,那是一种深深的爱。
“你想对我说什么,亲爱的?”
“爸爸!”她的眼中闪过一丝短暂的笑意,说:“如果我送一束花儿给布朗温小姐是不是太傻气了?”
卧病在床的父亲看着女儿那明亮、聪颖的眼睛心中充满了爱。
“不,亲爱的,一点都不傻。对女王我们才这样做呢。”
温妮弗莱德仍然没被说服。她甚至有点怀疑,女王们自己就很傻。可她又很想有一个浪漫的场合。
“那我就送花儿了?”
“送给布朗温小姐鲜花吗?送吧,小鸟儿。告诉威尔逊,我说的你要花儿。”
孩子笑了,她期望什么的时候就会无意识中露出这种笑容来。
“可我明天才要呢。”她说。
“好,明天,小鸟儿。亲亲我——”
温妮弗莱德默默地吻了病中的父亲,然后走出屋去。她又一次在暖室里转来转去,颐指气使地向园丁下着命令,告诉他她选定的都是哪些花。
“你要这些花干什么?”威尔逊问。
“我需要,”她说。她不希望仆人提问题。
“啊,是这样的。可你要它们做什么?装饰、送人、还是另有用?”
“我要送人。”
“送人?谁要驾到?是波特兰的公爵夫人?”
“不是。”
“不是她?哦,如果你把这些花儿都弄在一起,那就乱套了。”
“对,我就喜欢这种少见的乱套。”
“真的!那就没什么好说的了。”
第二天,温妮弗莱德身着银色的天鹅绒,手捧一束艳丽的鲜花,站在教室里盯着车道耐心地等待戈珍的到来。这天早晨空气很湿润。她的鼻子下面散发着温室里采来的鲜花的芬芳,这束花儿对她来说就象一团火,而她似乎心里燃着一团奇特的火焰。一种淡淡的浪漫气息令她沉醉。
她终于看到戈珍了,马上下楼去通知父亲和哥哥。他们一边往前厅走一边笑她太着急了。男仆赶忙来到门口接过戈珍的伞和雨衣。迎接她的人让出一条路来,请她进厅。
戈珍红朴朴的脸上沾着雨水珠,头上的小发卷在随风飘舞,她真象雨中开放的花朵,花蕊微露,似乎释放出保存着的阳光。看到她这样美,这样陌生,杰拉德不禁胆小了。戈珍的衣服是浅蓝色的,袜子是紫红的。
温妮弗莱德异常庄重,正式地走上前来说:
“你回来了,我们非常高兴。这些鲜花献给你。”说着她捧上花束。
“给我!?”戈珍叫道,一时间不知所措,绯红了脸,高兴得忘乎所以。然后她抬起头奇特、热切的目光盯着父亲和杰拉德。杰拉德的精神又垮了,似乎他无法承受戈珍那热烈的目光。在他看来,她太外露了,令人无法忍受。于是他把脸扭向一边。他感到他无法躲避她,为此他十分痛苦。
戈珍把脸埋进花儿中。
“真是太可爱了!”她压低嗓门说。然后她突然满怀激情地伏下身子吻了温妮弗莱德。
克里奇先生走上前来向她伸出手快活地说:
“我还担心你会从我们这儿跑掉呢。”
戈珍抬头看看他,脸上露出迷人、调皮的神情道:
“真的!我才不想呆在伦敦呢。”
她的话意味着她很高兴回肖特兰兹,她的声音热情而温柔。
“太好了,”父亲说,“你瞧,我们都非常欢迎你。”
戈珍深蓝色的眼睛闪着热情但羞涩的光芒,凝视着他的脸。她自己早已茫然了。
“你看上去就象胜利还乡,”克里奇先生握着她的手继续说。
“不,”她奇怪地说,“我到了这儿才算胜利了。”
“啊,来,来!咱们不要听这些故事了。咱们不是在报纸上看到这些消息了吗,杰拉德?”
“你大获全胜,”杰拉德握着她的手说,“都卖了吗?”
“不,”她说,“卖得不太多。”
“还行。”他说。
她不知道他指的是什么。但是,受到这样的欢迎,她十分高兴。
“温妮弗莱德,”父亲说,“给布朗温小姐拿双鞋来。你最好马上换鞋——”
戈珍手捧鲜花走了出去。
“是个了不起的女人,”戈珍走后父亲对杰拉德说。
“是啊。”杰拉德敷衍着,似乎他不喜欢父亲的评语。
克里奇先生想让戈珍小姐陪他坐半小时。平时他总是脸色苍白,浑身不舒服,生活把他折磨苦了。可一旦他振作起精神来,他就说服自己,相信自己同原先一样,很健康,不是置身于生活之外,而是身处生活的中心,身处强壮的生命中心。戈珍加强了他的自信心。同戈珍在一起,他就会获得半小时宝贵的力量和兴奋,获得自由,他就会觉得自己从未生活得如此愉快。
戈珍进来时发现他正支撑着身体半躺半坐在书房里。他脸色蜡黄,目光暗淡而浑沌。他的黑胡子中已有少许灰白,似乎生长在一具蜡黄的尸体上。可他仍带着活力和快活的气息。戈珍认为他这样挺好。她甚至想,他不过是个普通人罢了。不过,他那可怕的形象却印在她的心中了,这一点是她意识不到的。她知道,尽管他显得快活,可他的目光中的空虚是无法改变的。那是一双死人的眼睛。
“啊,布朗温小姐,”一听到男仆宣布她的到来,他忙起身回应。“托玛斯,为布朗温小姐搬一把椅子来,好。”他高兴地凝视着她柔和,红润的面孔,这张脸让他感觉到一种活力。“喝一杯雪利酒,再吃点饼干好吗?托玛斯——”
“不,谢谢,”戈珍说。说完后她的心可怕地沉了下去。见她内心这样矛盾,生病的老人非常难过。她应该顺从他而不是抗拒他。很快她又调皮地冲他笑了。
“我不太喜欢雪利,”戈珍说。“不过,别的饮料我几乎都喜欢。”
病中的老人象抓住了一根救命草一样。
“不要雪利,不要!要别的!什么呢?都有什么,托玛斯?”
“葡萄酒——柑香酒——”
“我喜欢来点柑香酒——”戈珍看着病人拘谨地说。
“那好,托玛斯,就上点柑香酒,再来点小饼干。”
“来点饼干。”戈珍说。她并不想要任何吃食,但不要就失礼了。
“好。”
他等着,直到她手捧酒杯和饼干坐好,他才说话。
“你是否听说,”他激动地说,“听说我们在马厩上为温妮弗莱德准备了一间画室?”
“没有!”戈珍不无惊奇地说。
“哦,我以为温妮在信中告诉你了呢!”
“哦——对。不过我还以为那是她自己的想法呢。”戈珍放声笑了起来。病人也高兴地笑了。
“不是她一个人的主意,这是一项真正的工程。马厩上有一间很好的房子,房顶上铺着椽子。我们打算把它改装成画室。”
“那可太好了!”戈珍非常兴奋地叫道。房顶上的椽子令她激动。
“你觉得好吗?好,那就行。”
“对温妮弗莱德来说这可太妙了!当然,如果她打算认真画画儿的话,就需要一间这样的工作室。一个人必须得有自己的工作室,否则他就永远无法成熟。”
“是吗?当然,如果你和温妮弗莱德共用一间画室的话,我会很高兴的。”
“太谢谢了。”
戈珍对此早就心中有数,但她非要表现出羞涩和感激的样子,似乎受宠若惊一样。
“当然,最令我高兴的是,如果你能辞去小学校的工作,利用画室工作,随你的便——”
他黑色的眼睛茫然地盯着戈珍。她报之以感激的目光。这些话出自这位行将就没的老人之口,意思表达得那么完整,那么自然。
“至于你的收入,你从我这里拿到的同从教育委员会那里拿到的一样多,有什么意见吗?我不希望你吃亏。”
“哦”戈珍说,“如果我能在画室里工作,我就可以挣足够的钱,真的,我可以。”
“好啊,”他很高兴地说,“你可以去看看。在这儿工作,行吗?”
“只要有工作室,”戈珍说,“没有比这更好的了。”
“是吗?”
他实在很高兴。不过您已经感到疲倦了。戈珍看得出痛苦与失意又袭上了他的心头,他空虚的目光中带着痛苦的神色。他还没死。于是她站起身轻声道:
“你或许要睡了吧,我要去找温妮弗莱德。”
她走出去告诉护士说她走了。日复一日,病人的神经渐渐不行了,渐渐地只剩下了一个支撑他生命的硬结。这个硬结太坚实,是他毫不松垮的意志,这意志决不屈服。他可以死掉十分之九,可最后那一丝生命仍然丝毫不改变。他就是用自己的意志支撑着自己。但他的活力大大不如从前了,快要耗尽了。
为了扼守生命,他必须扼守人与人之间的关系,任何一根救命草他都要抓紧。温妮弗莱德、男仆、护士和戈珍,这些人对他这个行将就没的人来说意义十分重大,他们就是一切。杰拉德在他父亲面前变得很呆板、反感。除了温妮弗莱德以外的其它孩子也颇有同感。当他们观察父亲时,他们从他身上看到的只有死亡。似乎他们潜意识中对父亲很不满意。他们无法认识父亲那张熟悉的脸,听到的也不是那熟悉的声音。他们听到的和看到的只是死亡。在父亲面前,杰拉德感到难以将息。他必须逃出去。同样,父亲也不能容忍儿子的存在。一看到他,这位濒临死亡的人就气不打一处来。
画室一准备好,温妮弗莱德和戈珍就搬了进去。她们在那儿可以发号施令。她们现在用不着到家中去,因为她们就在画室中吃住。家中现在可有点让人害怕,两个身着白衣的护士在屋里默默地穿梭,象是死亡的预言者。父亲只限于躺在床上,他的儿女们出出进进时都压着嗓门说话。
温妮弗莱德常来看父亲。每天早饭以后,待父亲洗漱完毕坐在床上,她就进去同他在一起待上半小时。
“你好些了吗,爸爸?”她总是这样问。
而他也总是这样回答:
“对,我想我好点了,宝贝儿。”
她用自己的双手爱抚地捧着父亲的手。他感到这样十分宝贵。
午饭时她又会跑进来告诉他发生了什么事。到晚上,窗帘垂下后屋里气氛很宜人,她会再来同父亲多待上一会儿。戈珍晚上回家了,这时温妮弗莱德最愿同父亲单独在一起。他们父女二人海阔天空地聊着,这时他总会显得自己身体很好,如同他当年工作时一样。温妮弗莱德很敏感,她有意避免谈到痛苦的事,装出一副无所谓的样子。她本能地控制自己的注意力,这样就会感到幸福。但她的心灵深处也和其它大人一样有同感:或许是好点了吧。
父亲在她面前装得很象。可她一走,他就又没入了死亡的痛苦中。好在他仍有这样兴奋的时候。但是他的体力大大减弱了,注意力无法集中起来,这时候护士不得不让温妮弗莱德走开以免他太疲劳。
他从来不承认他就要死了。但他知道自己要死了,他的末日到了。但他就是不肯承认。对这一事实他恨透了。他的意志仍旧很顽固,他不甘心让死亡战胜自己,他认为压根儿就没有死亡这回事。但他时时感到自己要大喊大叫抱怨一番。他真想冲杰拉德大叫一通,吓得他魂不附体。杰拉德本能地感觉到了这一点,所以他有意地躲避着父亲。这种肮脏的死亡实在令他厌恶。一个人要死就该象罗马人那样迅速死去,通过死来掌握自己的命运,就象在生活中一样。杰拉德在父亲死亡的钳制中挣扎着,如同被毒蛇缠住的拉奥孔①父子一样:那巨蟒缠住了父亲,又把两个儿子也拽了进去与他同死。杰拉德一直在抵抗着,奇怪的是,有时在父亲眼里他竟是一座力量之塔。
①希腊神话:特洛伊祭师拉奥孔因警告特洛伊人勿中木马计而触怒天神,和两个儿子一起被巨蟒缠死。著名的雕塑“拉奥孔”就取自这个题材。
他最后一次要求见戈珍是他临死之前。他一定要见到某个人,在弥留之际清醒的时候,他一定要与活生生的世界保持联系,否则他就得接受死亡的现实。值得庆幸的是,大多数时间中他都处于昏昏然状态中,在冥冥中思考着自己的过去,再一次重新回到过去的生活中。但在他最后的时光中,他仍能意识到眼前的情况:死神就要降临了。于是他呼唤着别人的帮助,不管谁来帮他都行。能够意识到死亡,这是一种超越死亡的死亡,再也不能再生了。他决不要承认这一点。
戈珍被他的形象吓坏了:目光无神,但仍然显得顽强不屈。
“啊,”他声音虚弱地说,“你和温妮弗莱德怎么样?”
“很好,真的。”戈珍回答。
他们的对话就象隔着死亡的鸿沟,似乎他们的想法不过是他死亡之海上漂乎不定的稻草。
“画室还好用吧?”他问。
“太好了,不能比这再好,再完美了。”戈珍说。
说完她就等待着他说话。
“你是否认为温妮弗莱德具有雕塑家的气质?”
真奇怪,这话多么空洞无味!
“我相信她有。总有一天她会塑出好作品来的。”
“那她的生活就不会荒废了,你说呢?”
戈珍很惊奇地轻声感叹道:
“当然不会!”
“那是。”
戈珍又等着他发话。
“你认为生活很愉快,活着很好,是吗?”他问着,脸上那苍白的笑简直令她无法忍受。
“对,”她笑了,她可以随意撒谎。“我相信日子会过得不错。”
“很对。快乐的天性是巨大的财富。”
戈珍又笑了,但她的心却因为厌恶而干枯。难道一个人应该这样死去吗?当生命被夺走时另一个人却微笑着跟他谈话?能不能以另外的方式死去?难道一个人一定要经历从战胜死亡的恐惧胜利——完整的意志的胜利——到彻底消亡的历程吗?人必须这样,这是唯一的出路。她太敬慕这位弥留之际的人那种自控能力了。但她仇恨死亡本身。令她高兴的是,日常生活的世界还令人满意,因此她用不着担心别的。
“你在这儿很好,我们不能为你做点什么吗?你没发现有什么不好的吗?”
“你对我太好了。”戈珍说。
“那好,你不说只能怪你自己不好,”他说。他感到很兴奋,因为他说了这么一番话。他仍然很强壮、还活着!但是,死的烦恼又开始重新向他袭来。
戈珍来到温妮弗莱德这里。法国女教师走了,戈珍在肖特兰兹待得时间很长。温妮的教育由另一位教师负责。但那个男教师并不住在肖特兰兹,他是小学校的人。
这天,戈珍准备和温妮弗莱德、杰拉德及伯金乘车到城里去。天下着毛毛雨,天色阴沉沉的。温妮弗莱德和戈珍准备好等在门口。温妮弗莱德很缄默,但戈珍没注意她这一点。
突然这孩子漠然地问:
“布朗温小姐,你认为我父亲要死了吗?”
戈珍一惊,说:“我不知道。”
“真不知道?”
“谁也说不准。当然,他总会死的。”
孩子思考了片刻又问:
“你认为他会死?”
这问题就象一道地理或科学题,她那么固执,似乎强迫大人回答。这孩子真有点象恶魔一样盯着戈珍,一副得胜的神态。
“他会死吗?”戈珍重复道,“是的,我想他会死的。”
可温妮弗莱德瞪大了眼睛目不转睛地盯着她。
“他病得很厉害。”戈珍说。
温妮弗莱德脸上闪过一丝微妙怀疑的笑。
“我不相信他会死。”这孩子嘲讽地说着走向车道。戈珍看着她孤独的身影,心滞住了。温妮弗莱德正在小溪旁玩耍,那副认真的样子,看上去倒象什么事也没发生过。
“我筑了一道水坝。”她的声音在远处响了起来。
这时杰拉德从后面的厅里走出来。
“她不相信,是有她的道理的。”他说。
戈珍看看他,两人的目光相遇了,交换了某种不无嘲讽的理解。
“是啊,”戈珍说。
他又看看她,眼中闪烁着火光。
“当罗马起火时,我们最好跳舞,反正它也是要被烧毁。
你说呢?”他说。
她很吃惊,但还是振作精神回答:
“当然,跳舞比哀嚎要好。”
“我也是这么想。”
说到此,他们双方都觉得有一种强烈的放松欲望,要把一切都甩开,沉入一种野性的放纵中。戈珍只觉得浑身荡着一股强壮的激情。她感到自己很强壮,她的双手如此强壮,她似乎可以把整个世界撕碎。她记起了罗马人的放纵,于是心里热乎乎的。她知道她自己也需要这种或别的与之相同的东西。啊,如果她身上那未知和被压抑的东西一旦放松,那是多么令人欣喜若狂的事啊!她需要这个。那站在她身后的男人紧挨着她,他令她体内那强烈的放纵欲升腾起来,她只觉得浑身发抖。她要同他一起放纵、狂疯。一时间这个想法完全占据了她的身心。但她马上又放弃了它。她说:
“咱们跟温妮弗莱德一起到门房去等车吧。”
“行。”他答应着随她而去。
他们进去后发现温妮弗莱德正爱抚着一窝纯种的小白狗。姑娘抬起头,漠然地扫了杰拉德和戈珍一眼。她并不想看到他们。
“看!”她叫道。“三只刚出生的小狗!马歇尔说这只狗很纯。多可爱啊,不过它不如它的妈妈好看。”她边说边抚摸着身边那头不安分的狗。
“我最亲爱的克里奇女士,”她说,“你象地球上的天使一样美丽。天使,天使,戈珍,你觉得她这么好,这么美,不可以进天堂吗?他们都会进天堂的,特别是我亲爱的克里奇女士!马歇尔太太,对吧?”
“你是说温妮弗莱德小姐?”那女人说着出现在门口。
“噢,叫它温妮弗莱德女士吧,好吗?告诉马歇尔,管它叫温妮弗莱德女士。”
“我会告诉他的,不过,这只狗是一位绅士,温妮弗莱德小姐。”
“哦,不!”这时响起了汽车声。“卢伯特来了!”孩子叫着跑向大门口。
伯金驾着车停在了门口。
“我们都准备好了!”温妮弗莱德叫道。“卢伯特,我想跟你一起坐在前面,行吗?”
“我怕你不安分从车上摔出去。”他说。
“不,我不。我就是想同你一起坐在车前。那样我的脚挨着发动机可以取暖。”
伯金扶她上了车,杰拉德和戈珍在后排落了座。
“有什么新闻吗,卢伯特?”杰拉德问。
“新闻?”伯金问。
“是的,”杰拉德看看身旁的戈珍,眯起眼睛笑道,“我不知道是否该祝贺他,可我无法从他这儿得到准信儿。”
戈珍绯红了脸道:
“祝贺他什么?”
“我们说起过订婚的事,至少他对我说起过。”
戈珍的脸红透了。
“你是说跟厄秀拉?”她有点挑战地说。
“对,就是,难道不是吗?”
“我不认为订了什么婚。”戈珍冷冷地说。
“是吗?没有进展吗,卢伯特?”他问。
“什么?结婚?没有。”
“这是怎么回事?”戈珍问。
伯金迅速环视了一下,目光中透着愤懑。
“怎么了?”他说,“你怎么看这事,戈珍?”
“哦,”她叫道,既然大家都往水里扔石头,她也下决心扔。“我不认为她想订婚。论本性,她是一只爱在丛林中飞翱的鸟儿。”戈珍的声音清澈、宏亮,很象她父亲。
“可是我,”伯金说,“我需要一个起约束作用的条约,我对爱,特别是自由爱不感兴趣。”他神情快活但声音很坚定。
他们二人都觉得好笑。为什么要当众宣言?杰拉德一时不知所措了。
“爱对你来说不够么?”他问。
“不!”伯金叫道。
“哈,那就,有点过分了。”杰拉德说话时汽车从泥泞中驶过。
“到底怎么了?”杰拉德问戈珍。
他这种故做亲昵之态激怒了戈珍,她觉得自己受到了侮辱。似乎杰拉德故意侮辱她,侵犯了她的隐私。
“谁知道怎么回事?”她尖着嗓子厌恶地说。“少问我!我根本不知道什么最终的婚姻,告你说吧,我连什么叫次最终婚姻都不知道。”
“你只知道毫无道理的婚姻!”杰拉德说。“说起来,我并不是婚姻方面的专家,也不精通最终是一种什么程度,这似乎是一只蜜蜂在伯金的帽子里嗡嗡作响。”
“太对了!他的烦恼正是这个!他并不是需要女人,他只是要实现自己的想法。一旦付诸实践,就没那么好了。”
“最好象一头牛冲向门口一样去寻找女人身上的特点。”然后他似乎闪烁其词地说:“你认为爱是这张门票,对吗?”
“当然,反正是那么回事,只是你无法坚持要获得永恒的爱。”戈珍的声音很刺耳。
“结婚或不结婚,永恒或次永恒或一般化,你寻到什么样的爱就是什么样。”
“喜欢也罢,不喜欢也罢,”她附和说,“婚姻是一种社会安排,我接受它,但这跟爱的问题无关。”
他的目光一直在她身上留滞着。她感到自己被他放任、恶毒地吻着。她两颊火烧般地热,但她的心却十分坚定。
“你是否觉得卢伯特有点头脑发昏?”杰拉德问。
“对一个女人来说,是这样,”她说,“我是觉得他发昏了。或许,的的确确有两个人一辈子都相爱这种事。可是,即便这样,照旧可以没有婚姻。如果他们相爱,那很好。如果不爱,干吗要刨根问底?”
“是啊,”杰拉德说。“我就为此感到惊奇。可卢伯特怎么想?”
“我说不清。他说不清,谁也说不清。他似乎认为,如果你结婚,你就可以通过婚姻进入天堂什么的,反正很朦胧。”
“很朦胧!谁需要那个天堂?其实,卢伯特很渴望稳妥安全。”
“对。我似乎觉得他在这一点上想得不对,”戈珍说。“我相信,情妇比妻子更忠诚,那是因为她是自己的主人。可卢伯特认为,一对夫妻可以比任何两个别人走得更远,至于走向何方,他没解释。他们相互了解,无论在天堂上还是在地狱中,特别是在地狱中,他们太了解对方了,因此他们可以超越天堂和地狱、去到——某个地方,在那儿一切都粉碎了——不知什么地方。”
“到天堂嘛,他说的。”杰拉德笑道。
戈珍耸耸肩道:“去你的天堂吧!”
“但不是伊斯兰教徒。”杰拉德说。
伯金不动声色地开着车,对他们的话毫不在意。戈珍就坐在伯金身后,她感到出伯金的洋相是一种说不出来的快活。
“他说,”戈珍扮个鬼脸补充说,“你可以在婚姻中找到永久的平衡,同时仍然保持自己的独立性,两者不会混淆。”
“这对我没什么启发。”杰拉德说。
“就是这样的。”戈珍说。
“我相信爱,相信真正的放纵。”杰拉德说。
“我也一样。”她说。
“其实伯金也这样,别看他整天乱叫。”
“不,”戈珍说,“他不会对另一个人放纵自己。你无法摸透他。我觉得这是件麻烦事。”
“可他需要婚姻!婚姻,难道是别的?”
“天堂!”戈珍调侃道。
伯金驾驶着汽车,感到脊背发凉,似乎有人要砍他的头。但他抖抖肩不予理会。天空开始落雨了。他停了车、下去给发动机盖上罩子。
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。
゛臉紅紅....

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等级: 内阁元老
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
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。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 22 Woman to Woman


THEY CAME to the town, and left Gerald at the railway station. Gudrun and Winifred were to come to tea with Birkin, who expected Ursula also. In the afternoon, however, the first person to turn up was Hermione. Birkin was out, so she went in the drawing-room, looking at his books and papers, and playing on the piano. Then Ursula arrived. She was surprised, unpleasantly so, to see Hermione, of whom she had heard nothing for some time.
`It is a surprise to see you,' she said.
`Yes,' said Hermione -- `I've been away at Aix --'
`Oh, for your health?'
`Yes.'
The two women looked at each other. Ursula resented Hermione's long, grave, downward-looking face. There was something of the stupidity and the unenlightened self-esteem of a horse in it. `She's got a horse-face,' Ursula said to herself, `she runs between blinkers.' It did seem as if Hermione, like the moon, had only one side to her penny. There was no obverse. She stared out all the time on the narrow, but to her, complete world of the extant consciousness. In the darkness, she did not exist. Like the moon, one half of her was lost to life. Her self was all in her head, she did not know what it was spontaneously to run or move, like a fish in the water, or a weasel on the grass. She must always know.
But Ursula only suffered from Hermione's one-sidedness. She only felt Hermione's cool evidence, which seemed to put her down as nothing. Hermione, who brooded and brooded till she was exhausted with the ache of her effort at consciousness, spent and ashen in her body, who gained so slowly and with such effort her final and barren conclusions of knowledge, was apt, in the presence of other women, whom she thought simply female, to wear the conclusions of her bitter assurance like jewels which conferred on her an unquestionable distinction, established her in a higher order of life. She was apt, mentally, to condescend to women such as Ursula, whom she regarded as purely emotional. Poor Hermione, it was her one possession, this aching certainty of hers, it was her only justification. She must be confident here, for God knows, she felt rejected and deficient enough elsewhere. In the life of thought, of the spirit, she was one of the elect. And she wanted to be universal. But there was a devastating cynicism at the bottom of her. She did not believe in her own universals -- they were sham. She did not believe in the inner life -- it was a trick, not a reality. She did not believe in the spiritual world -- it was an affectation. In the last resort, she believed in Mammon, the flesh, and the devil -- these at least were not sham. She was a priestess without belief, without conviction, suckled in a creed outworn, and condemned to the reiteration of mysteries that were not divine to her. Yet there was no escape. She was a leaf upon a dying tree. What help was there then, but to fight still for the old, withered truths, to die for the old, outworn belief, to be a sacred and inviolate priestess of desecrated mysteries? The old great truths bad been true. And she was a leaf of the old great tree of knowledge that was withering now. To the old and last truth then she must be faithful even though cynicism and mockery took place at the bottom of her soul.
`I am so glad to see you,' she said to Ursula, in her slow voice, that was like an incantation. `You and Rupert have become quite friends?'
`Oh yes,' said Ursula. `He is always somewhere in the background.'
Hermione paused before she answered. She saw perfectly well the other woman's vaunt: it seemed truly vulgar.
`Is he?' she said slowly, and with perfect equanimity. `And do you think you will marry?'
The question was so calm and mild, so simple and bare and dispassionate that Ursula was somewhat taken aback, rather attracted. It pleased her almost like a wickedness. There was some delightful naked irony in Hermione.
`Well,' replied Ursula, `He wants to, awfully, but I'm not so sure.'
Hermione watched her with slow calm eyes. She noted this new expression of vaunting. How she envied Ursula a certain unconscious positivity! even her vulgarity!
`Why aren't you sure?' she asked, in her easy sing song. She was perfectly at her ease, perhaps even rather happy in this conversation. `You don't really love him?'
Ursula flushed a little at the mild impertinence of this question. And yet she could not definitely take offence. Hermione seemed so calmly and sanely candid. After all, it was rather great to be able to be so sane.
`He says it isn't love he wants,' she replied.
`What is it then?' Hermione was slow and level.
`He wants me really to accept him in marriage.'
Hermione was silent for some time, watching Ursula with slow, pensive eyes.
`Does he?' she said at length, without expression. Then, rousing, `And what is it you don't want? You don't want marriage?'
`No -- I don't -- not really. I don't want to give the sort of submission he insists on. He wants me to give myself up -- and I simply don't feel that I can do it.'
Again there was a long pause, before Hermione replied:
`Not if you don't want to.' Then again there was silence. Hermione shuddered with a strange desire. Ah, if only he had asked her to subserve him, to be his slave! She shuddered with desire.
`You see I can't --'
`But exactly in what does --'
They had both begun at once, they both stopped. Then, Hermione, assuming priority of speech, resumed as if wearily:
`To what does he want you to submit?'
`He says he wants me to accept him non-emotionally, and finally -- I really don't know what he means. He says he wants the demon part of himself to be mated -- physically -- not the human being. You see he says one thing one day, and another the next -- and he always contradicts himself --'
`And always thinks about himself, and his own dissatisfaction,' said Hermione slowly.
`Yes,' cried Ursula. `As if there were no-one but himself concerned. That makes it so impossible.'
But immediately she began to retract.
`He insists on my accepting God knows what in him,' she resumed. `He wants me to accept him as -- as an absolute -- But it seems to me he doesn't want to give anything. He doesn't want real warm intimacy -- he won't have it -- he rejects it. He won't let me think, really, and he won't let me feel -- he hates feelings.'
There was a long pause, bitter for Hermione. Ah, if only he would have made this demand of her? Her he drove into thought, drove inexorably into knowledge -- and then execrated her for it.
`He wants me to sink myself,' Ursula resumed, `not to have any being of my own --'
`Then why doesn't he marry an odalisk?' said Hermione in her mild sing-song, `if it is that he wants.' Her long face looked sardonic and amused.
`Yes,' said Ursula vaguely. After all, the tiresome thing was, he did not want an odalisk, he did not want a slave. Hermione would have been his slave -- there was in her a horrible desire to prostrate herself before a man -- a man who worshipped her, however, and admitted her as the supreme thing. He did not want an odalisk. He wanted a woman to take something from him, to give herself up so much that she could take the last realities of him, the last facts, the last physical facts, physical and unbearable.
And if she did, would he acknowledge her? Would he be able to acknowledge her through everything, or would he use her just as his instrument, use her for his own private satisfaction, not admitting her? That was what the other men had done. They had wanted their own show, and they would not admit her, they turned all she was into nothingness. Just as Hermione now betrayed herself as a woman. Hermione was like a man, she believed only in men's things. She betrayed the woman in herself. And Birkin, would he acknowledge, or would he deny her?
`Yes,' said Hermione, as each woman came out of her own separate reverie. `It would be a mistake -- I think it would be a mistake --'
`To marry him?' asked Ursula.
`Yes,' said Hermione slowly -- `I think you need a man -- soldierly, strong-willed -- ' Hermione held out her hand and clenched it with rhapsodic intensity. `You should have a man like the old heroes -- you need to stand behind him as he goes into battle, you need to see his strength, and to hear his shout --. You need a man physically strong, and virile in his will, not a sensitive man --.' There was a break, as if the pythoness had uttered the oracle, and now the woman went on, in a rhapsody-wearied voice: `And you see, Rupert isn't this, he isn't. He is frail in health and body, he needs great, great care. Then he is so changeable and unsure of himself -- it requires the greatest patience and understanding to help him. And I don't think you are patient. You would have to be prepared to suffer -- dreadfully. I can't tell you how much suffering it would take to make him happy. He lives an intensely spiritual life, at times -- too, too wonderful. And then come the reactions. I can't speak of what I have been through with him. We have been together so long, I really do know him, I do know what he is. And I feel I must say it; I feel it would be perfectly disastrous for you to marry him -- for you even more than for him.' Hermione lapsed into bitter reverie. `He is so uncertain, so unstable -- he wearies, and then reacts. I couldn't tell you what his re-actions are. I couldn't tell you the agony of them. That which he affirms and loves one day -- a little latter he turns on it in a fury of destruction. He is never constant, always this awful, dreadful reaction. Always the quick change from good to bad, bad to good. And nothing is so devastating, nothing --'
`Yes,' said Ursula humbly, `you must have suffered.'
An unearthly light came on Hermione's face. She clenched her hand like one inspired.
`And one must be willing to suffer -- willing to suffer for him hourly, daily -- if you are going to help him, if he is to keep true to anything at all -- '
`And I don't want to suffer hourly and daily,' said Ursula. `I don't, I should be ashamed. I think it is degrading not to be happy.'
Hermione stopped and looked at her a long time.
`Do you?' she said at last. And this utterance seemed to her a mark of Ursula's far distance from herself. For to Hermione suffering was the greatest reality, come what might. Yet she too had a creed of happiness.
`Yes,' she said. `One should be happy --' But it was a matter of will.
`Yes,' said Hermione, listlessly now, `I can only feel that it would be disastrous, disastrous -- at least, to marry in a hurry. Can't you be together without marriage? Can't you go away and live somewhere without marriage? I do feel that marriage would be fatal, for both of you. I think for you even more than for him -- and I think of his health --'
`Of course,' said Ursula, `I don't care about marriage -- it isn't really important to me -- it's he who wants it.'
`It is his idea for the moment,' said Hermione, with that weary finality, and a sort of si jeunesse savait infallibility.
There was a pause. Then Ursula broke into faltering challenge.
`You think I'm merely a physical woman, don't you?'
`No indeed,' said Hermione. `No, indeed! But I think you are vital and young -- it isn't a question of years, or even of experience -- it is almost a question of race. Rupert is race-old, he comes of an old race -- and you seem to me so young, you come of a young, inexperienced race.'
`Do I!' said Ursula. `But I think he is awfully young, on one side.'
`Yes, perhaps childish in many respects. Nevertheless --'
They both lapsed into silence. Ursula was filled with deep resentment and a touch of hopelessness. `It isn't true,' she said to herself, silently addressing her adversary. `It isn't true. And it is you who want a physically strong, bullying man, not I. It is you who want an unsensitive man, not I. You don't know anything about Rupert, not really, in spite of the years you have had with him. You don't give him a woman's love, you give him an ideal love, and that is why he reacts away from you. You don't know. You only know the dead things. Any kitchen maid would know something about him, you don't know. What do you think your knowledge is but dead understanding, that doesn't mean a thing. You are so false, and untrue, how could you know anything? What is the good of your talking about love -- you untrue spectre of a woman! How can you know anything, when you don't believe? You don't believe in yourself and your own womanhood, so what good is your conceited, shallow cleverness --!'
The two women sat on in antagonistic silence. Hermione felt injured, that all her good intention, all her offering, only left the other woman in vulgar antagonism. But then, Ursula could not understand, never would understand, could never be more than the usual jealous and unreasonable female, with a good deal of powerful female emotion, female attraction, and a fair amount of female understanding, but no mind. Hermione had decided long ago that where there was no mind, it was useless to appeal for reason -- one had merely to ignore the ignorant. And Rupert -- he had now reacted towards the strongly female, healthy, selfish woman -- it was his reaction for the time being -- there was no helping it all. It was all a foolish backward and forward, a violent oscillation that would at length be too violent for his coherency, and he would smash and be dead. There was no saving him. This violent and directionless reaction between animalism and spiritual truth would go on in him till he tore himself in two between the opposite directions, and disappeared meaninglessly out of life. It was no good -- he too was without unity, without mind, in the ultimate stages of living; not quite man enough to make a destiny for a woman.
They sat on till Birkin came in and found them together. He felt at once the antagonism in the atmosphere, something radical and insuperable, and he bit his lip. But he affected a bluff manner.
`Hello, Hermione, are you back again? How do you feel?'
`Oh, better. And how are you -- you don't look well --'
`Oh! -- I believe Gudrun and Winnie Crich are coming in to tea. At least they said they were. We shall be a tea-party. What train did you come by, Ursula?'
It was rather annoying to see him trying to placate both women at once. Both women watched him, Hermione with deep resentment and pity for him, Ursula very impatient. He was nervous and apparently in quite good spirits, chattering the conventional commonplaces. Ursula was amazed and indignant at the way he made small-talk; he was adept as any fat in Christendom. She became quite stiff, she would not answer. It all seemed to her so false and so belittling. And still Gudrun did not appear.
`I think I shall go to Florence for the winter,' said Hermione at length.
`Will you?' he answered. `But it is so cold there.'
`Yes, but I shall stay with Palestra. It is quite comfortable.'
`What takes you to Florence?'
`I don't know,' said Hermione slowly. Then she looked at him with her slow, heavy gaze. `Barnes is starting his school of aesthetics, and Olandese is going to give a set of discourses on the Italian national policy--'
`Both rubbish,' he said.
`No, I don't think so,' said Hermione.
`Which do you admire, then?'
`I admire both. Barnes is a pioneer. And then I am interested in Italy, in her coming to national consciousness.'
`I wish she'd come to something different from national consciousness, then,' said Birkin; `especially as it only means a sort of commercialindustrial consciousness. I hate Italy and her national rant. And I think Barnes is an amateur.'
Hermione was silent for some moments, in a state of hostility. But yet, she had got Birkin back again into her world! How subtle her influence was, she seemed to start his irritable attention into her direction exclusively, in one minute. He was her creature.
`No,' she said, `you are wrong.' Then a sort of tension came over her, she raised her face like the pythoness inspired with oracles, and went on, in rhapsodic manner: `Il Sandro mi scrive che ha accolto il piu grande entusiasmo, tutti i giovani, e fanciulle e ragazzi, sono tutti --' She went on in Italian, as if, in thinking of the Italians she thought in their language.
He listened with a shade of distaste to her rhapsody, then he said:
`For all that, I don't like it. Their nationalism is just industrialism -- that and a shallow jealousy I detest so much.'
`I think you are wrong -- I think you are wrong --' said Hermione. `It seems to me purely spontaneous and beautiful, the modern Italian's passion, for it is a passion, for Italy, L'Italia --'
`Do you know Italy well?' Ursula asked of Hermione. Hermione hated to be broken in upon in this manner. Yet she answered mildly:
`Yes, pretty well. I spent several years of my girlhood there, with my mother. My mother died in Florence.'
`Oh.'
There was a pause, painful to Ursula and to Birkin. Hermione however seemed abstracted and calm. Birkin was white, his eyes glowed as if he were in a fever, he was far too over-wrought. How Ursula suffered in this tense atmosphere of strained wills! Her head seemed bound round by iron bands.
Birkin rang the bell for tea. They could not wait for Gudrun any longer. When the door was opened, the cat walked in.
`Micio! Micio!' called Hermione, in her slow, deliberate sing-song. The young cat turned to look at her, then, with his slow and stately walk he advanced to her side.
`Vieni -- vieni qua,' Hermione was saying, in her strange caressive, protective voice, as if she were always the elder, the mother superior. `Vieni dire Buon' Giorno alla zia. Mi ricorde, mi ricorde bene -- non he vero, piccolo? E vero che mi ricordi? E vero?' And slowly she rubbed his head, slowly and with ironic indifference.
`Does he understand Italian?' said Ursula, who knew nothing of the language.
`Yes,' said Hermione at length. `His mother was Italian. She was born in my waste-paper basket in Florence, on the morning of Rupert's birthday. She was his birthday present.'
Tea was brought in. Birkin poured out for them. It was strange how inviolable was the intimacy which existed between him and Hermione. Ursula felt that she was an outsider. The very tea-cups and the old silver was a bond between Hermione and Birkin. It seemed to belong to an old, past world which they had inhabited together, and in which Ursula was a foreigner. She was almost a parvenue in their old cultured milieu. Her convention was not their convention, their standards were not her standards. But theirs were established, they had the sanction and the grace of age. He and she together, Hermione and Birkin, were people of the same old tradition, the same withered deadening culture. And she, Ursula, was an intruder. So they always made her feel.
Hermione poured a little cream into a saucer. The simple way she assumed her rights in Birkin's room maddened and discouraged Ursula. There was a fatality about it, as if it were bound to be. Hermione lifted the cat and put the cream before him. He planted his two paws on the edge of the table and bent his gracious young head to drink.
`Siccuro che capisce italiano,' sang Hermione, `non l'avra dimenticato, la lingua della Mamma.'
She lifted the cat's head with her long, slow, white fingers, not letting him drink, holding him in her power. It was always the same, this joy in power she manifested, peculiarly in power over any male being. He blinked forbearingly, with a male, bored expression, licking his whiskers. Hermione laughed in her short, grunting fashion.
`Ecco, il bravo ragazzo, come e superbo, questo!'
She made a vivid picture, so calm and strange with the cat. She had a true static impressiveness, she was a social artist in some ways.
The cat refused to look at her, indifferently avoided her fingers, and began to drink again, his nose down to the cream, perfectly balanced, as he lapped with his odd little click.
`It's bad for him, teaching him to eat at table,' said Birkin.
`Yes,' said Hermione, easily assenting.
Then, looking down at the cat, she resumed her old, mocking, humorous sing-song.
`Ti imparano fare brutte cose, brutte cose --'
She lifted the Mino's white chin on her forefinger, slowly. The young cat looked round with a supremely forbearing air, avoided seeing anything, withdrew his chin, and began to wash his face with his paw. Hermione grunted her laughter, pleased.
`Bel giovanotto --' she said.
The cat reached forward again and put his fine white paw on the edge of the saucer. Hermione lifted it down with delicate slowness. This deliberate, delicate carefulness of movement reminded Ursula of Gudrun.
`No! Non e permesso di mettere il zampino nel tondinetto. Non piace al babbo. Un signor gatto cosi selvatico --!'
And she kept her finger on the softly planted paw of the cat, and her voice had the same whimsical, humorous note of bullying.
Ursula had her nose out of joint. She wanted to go away now. It all seemed no good. Hermione was established for ever, she herself was ephemeral and had not yet even arrived.
`I will go now,' she said suddenly.
Birkin looked at her almost in fear -- he so dreaded her anger. `But there is no need for such hurry,' he said.
`Yes,' she answered. `I will go.' And turning to Hermione, before there was time to say any more, she held out her hand and said `Good-bye.'
`Good-bye --' sang Hermione, detaining the band. `Must you really go now?'
`Yes, I think I'll go,' said Ursula, her face set, and averted from Hermione's eyes.
`You think you will --'
But Ursula had got her hand free. She turned to Birkin with a quick, almost jeering: `Good-bye,' and she was opening the door before he had time to do it for her.
When she got outside the house she ran down the road in fury and agitation. It was strange, the unreasoning rage and violence Hermione roused in her, by her very presence. Ursula knew she gave herself away to the other woman, she knew she looked ill-bred, uncouth, exaggerated. But she did not care. She only ran up the road, lest she should go back and jeer in the faces of the two she had left behind. For they outraged her.
 
他们进了城后杰拉德就去火车站了。戈珍和温妮弗莱德同伯金一起去喝茶。伯金在等厄秀拉来,可下午第一个到的却是赫麦妮。伯金刚出去,于是她就进了客厅去看他的书和报纸,又去弹钢琴。随后厄秀拉到了。看到赫麦妮在这儿,她很不高兴,又感到惊讶,她好久没听到赫麦妮的音讯了。
“真想不到会见到您。”她说。
“是啊,”赫麦妮说,“我到爱克斯去了。”
“去疗养?”
“是的。”
两个女人对视着。厄秀拉很讨厌赫麦妮那张细长,阴沉的脸,那似乎是一张愚蠢、不开化但又颇为自尊的马脸。“她长着一张马脸,”她心里说,“还戴着马眼罩。”赫麦妮的确象月亮,你只能看到她的一面而看不到另一面。她总是盯着一个凸现狭小的世界,但她自己却以为那是全部的世界。在黑暗处她是不存在的。象月亮一样,她的一半丢给了生活。她的自我都装在她的心里,她不懂得什么叫自然冲动,比如鱼在水中游或鼬鼠在草丛中钻动。她总要通过知识去认识。
厄秀拉深受赫麦妮的这种片面之苦,它令厄秀拉毫无办法。赫麦妮常常是绞尽脑汁冥思苦索才能渐渐地获得干瘪的知识结论。但在别的女人面前,她惯于端起自信的架子,象戴着什么珠宝一样用知识把自己与其他她认为仅仅是女人的人区分开来,从而显得她高人一等。她惯于对厄秀拉这样的女人显得降尊纡贵,她认为她们是纯情感似的女人。可怜的赫麦妮,她的自信是她的一大财富,她觉得这样做是有道理的。她在此一定要显得自信,因为她不知为什么感到自己处处受排斥、感到虚弱。在思维与精神生活中,她是上帝的选民。尽管她很想与别人融洽,但她内心深处太愤世嫉俗了。她不相信自己会与人为善,那是摆样子罢了。她不相信什么内在的生活——这是一个骗局,不是现实。她不相信精神世界——那是一种假象。唯一让她相信的是贪欲、肉欲和魔王——这些至少不是虚假的。她是个没有信仰、没有信念的牧师,她从一种过时的,沦为重复的神话教义中吸取营养,这些教义对她来说压根儿就不神圣。可是她别无选择。她是一棵将死的树上的叶子。有什么办法呢?她只能为旧的、枯萎的真理而斗争,为旧的、过时的信仰而死,为被亵渎的神话作一个神圣不可侵犯的牧师。古老他伟大真理一直是正确的。她是古老的、伟大的知识之树上的叶子,可这棵树现在凋零了。尽管她的内心深处不乏愤世嫉俗,但对于这古老的真理她必须抱着忠诚的态度。
“见到您我很高兴,”她声音低得象念咒语一样对厄秀拉说。“您跟卢伯特已经成为很好的朋友了?”
“哦,是的,”厄秀拉说,“但他总是躲着我。”
赫麦妮没说话。她完全看得出厄秀拉在自吹自擂、这实在庸俗。
“是吗?”她缓慢、十分镇定地问,“你觉得你们会结婚吗?”
这问题提得那样平静,简单而毫无感情色彩,厄秀拉对这种不无恶意的挑衅有点吃惊,也有点高兴。赫麦妮的话语中颇有点嘲弄。
“哦,”厄秀拉说,“他很想结婚,可我拿不准。”
赫麦妮缓缓地审视着厄秀拉。她发现厄秀拉又在吹牛皮。她真忌妒厄秀拉身上这种毫不经意的自信,甚至她的庸俗之处!
“你为什么拿不准?”她语调毫无起伏地问。她十分安详、这种谈话令她高兴。“你真不爱他?”
听到这种不怎么切题的话,厄秀拉的脸微微发红。不过她又不会生她的气,因为赫麦妮看上去是那么平和、那么理智而坦率。能象她这么理智可真不简单。
“他说他需要的不是爱。”她回答。
“那是什么?”赫麦妮语调平缓地问。
“他要我在婚姻中真正接受他。”
赫麦妮沉默了片刻,阴郁的目光缓缓扫视着她。
“是吗?”她终于毫无表情地说。然后她问:“那么你不需要的是什么?你不需要婚姻吗?”
“不——我不——并不很想。我不想象他坚持的那样驯服。他需要我放弃自我,可我简直无法想象我会那样做。”
赫麦妮又沉默了好久才说:
“如果你不想你就不会做。”说完她又沉默了。一股奇特的欲望令赫麦妮不寒而栗。啊,如果伯金是要求她顺从他,成为他的奴隶,那该多么好!她颤抖着。
“你看,我不能——”
“可,说实在的,什么——”
她们双方同时张口说话而又同时打住了。然后赫麦妮似乎疲惫地率先开口道:
“他要你屈服于什么?”
“他说他命望我不带感情色彩地接受他,我真不明白他这是什么意思。他说他希望他魔鬼的一面找到伴侣——肉体上,不是人的一面。你瞧,他今天说东明天说西,总是自相矛盾。”
“总为自己着想,总想自己的不满之处。”赫麦妮缓缓地说。
“对,”厄秀拉叫道,“似乎只有他一个人重要。真要不得。”
但她马上又说:“他坚持要我接受他身上的什么东西——天知道是什么。他要我把他当,当上帝看,可我似乎觉得他不想给予什么。他并不需要真正热烈的亲昵,他不要这个,他讨厌这个。他不让我思考,真的,他不让我感知,他讨厌感情。”
赫麦妮沉默了好久,心里发苦。啊,如果他这样要求她该多好。他逼着她思考,逼着她钻进知识中去,然后又反过来憎恨她的思想和知识。
“他要我自沉,”厄秀拉又说,“要我失去我的自我——”
“既然如此,他干吗不要一个宫女?”赫麦妮软绵绵地说。
她的长脸上带着嘲讽悻悻然的表情。
“就是嘛,”厄秀拉含糊其辞地说。讨厌的是,他并不需要宫女,并不需要奴隶。赫麦妮本来可以成为他的奴隶——她强烈地希望屈从于一个男人——他崇拜她、把她当成至高无上的人。他并不需要宫女。他要一个女人从他那得到点什么,让这女人完全放弃自我从而能得到他最后的真实,最后的肉体真实。
如果她这样做,他会承认她吗?他能够通过所有一切来承认她还是仅仅把她当成他的工具,利用她来满足自己的私欲但又不接受她?别的男人都是这样做的。他们只要显示自己,但拒不接受她,把她的本来面目搞得一钱不值。这就如同赫麦妮背叛了女人自身一样,她只相信男人的东西。她背叛了女性的自己。至于伯金,他会承认她,还是否定她?
“是啊,”赫麦妮象刚从白日梦中醒来一样说。“那将会是个错误,我觉得那将会是个错误——”
“你指跟他结婚?”厄秀拉问。
“对,”赫麦妮缓缓地说,“我认为你需要一个男士般意志坚强的男人——”说着赫麦妮伸出手狂热地握成拳头。“你应该有一个象古代英雄一样的男人——你应该在他去打仗时站在他的身后观看他的力量,倾听他的呐喊——你需要一个肉体上强壮的男人,意志坚强的男人,而不是一个多愁善感的男人——”她不说了,似乎女巫已发出了预言。然后她又嗫嚅着:“你知道卢伯特不是这样的人,他不是。他身体不强壮,他需要别人的关心,极大的关心。他自己脾性多变,缺乏自信,要想帮助他需要巨大的耐性与理解力。我觉得你没耐心。你应该准备好,将来会受罪的。我无法告诉你要受多大的罪才能使他幸福。他的精神生活太紧张了,当然有时是很美妙的。但也会物极必反。我无法说我在他那儿都经受了些什么。我同他在一起时间太久了,我真地了解他,知道他是个什么人。可我必须对你说:我感到如果跟他结婚那会是一场灾难,对你来说灾难更大。”说着赫麦妮陷入了痛苦的梦境中。“他太没有准儿,太不稳定——他会厌倦,然后会变挂。
我无法告诉你他是如何变挂的。说不出那是多么令人气愤。他一时赞同喜爱的东西,不久就会对其大为光火,恨不得一毁了之。他总没个长性,总会这样可怕地变挂。总是这样由坏到好,由好到坏地变来变去。没有什么比这更可怕,比这更——”
“对,”厄秀拉谦卑地说,“你一定吃了不少苦头。”
这时赫麦妮脸上闪过一线不同寻常的光芒。她象受了什么启发似地握紧拳头。
“可是你必须自愿受苦——如果你要帮助他,如果他要真诚对待一切,你就要自愿为他时时刻刻受苦。”
“可我不想时时刻刻受苦,”厄秀拉说。“我不想,我觉得那是耻辱。活得不幸福是一种耻辱。”
赫麦妮不语,久久地看着她。
“是吗?”她终于说。这似乎表明她同厄秀拉之间有着漫长的距离。对赫麦妮来说,受苦是伟大的真实,不管发生什么都是这样。当然她也有幸福的教义。
“是的,”她说,“一个人应该幸福。可这取决于意志。”
“对,”赫麦妮无精打采地说。“我只是感到,急急忙忙结婚会酿成灾难的。你们难道不结婚就不能在一起吗?你们难道不能到别处去生活,不结婚吗?我的确感到结婚对你们双方来说都是不幸的。对你来说更为不幸。另外,我为他的健康担忧。”
“当然了,”厄秀拉说,“我并不在乎结不结婚,对我来说这并不十分重要,是他想要结婚的。”
“这是他一时的主意,”赫麦妮疲惫地说,那种肯定的语气表明:你们年轻人哪懂这个。
一阵沉默,随后厄秀拉结结巴巴挑战似地问道:
“你是否以为我仅仅是个肉体上的女人?”
“不,不是的。”赫麦妮说,“不,真的不是!但我觉得你充满了活力,你年轻——这是岁月甚至是经验的问题,这几乎是种族的问题。卢伯特来自一个古老的种族,他那个种族老了,所以他也老了,可你看上去是那么年轻,你来自一个年轻、尚无经验的种族。”
“是吗?!”厄秀拉说,“可我觉得从某种角度来说他太年轻了。”
“是的,也许在许多方面他还很孩子气。但无论如何——”
她们都沉默了。厄秀拉深感厌烦、绝望。“这不是真的,”她对自己说,也是在向自己的敌人默默挑战。“这不是真的。是你,你想要一个身体健壮、气势凌人的男人,不是我。是你,你想要一个无愁无感的男人,不是我。你并不了解卢伯特,真地不了解,别看你同他一起共事那么久。你并没有把女人的爱给予他,你给予他的只是一种理想的爱,就因为这个他才离开了你。你不知道,你只知道僵死的东西,任何女厨子都会对他有所了解,可你却不了解他。你认为你的知识是什么?不过是一些说明不了任何事物的僵死的理解。你太虚假了,太不真实了,你能知道什么?你谈什么爱不爱的有什么用?你是个虚伪的女精灵!当你什么都不相信时你能懂得什么?你并不相信你自己,不相信你女人的自我,那么,你那傲慢、浅薄的聪明又有什么用?!”
两个女人在沉默中敌视地面面相觑。赫麦妮感到受了伤害,却原来她的好意和她的馈赠只换来了这个女人庸俗的敌意。厄秀拉无法理解这些,永远也不会理解,她不过是一般的爱妒忌、毫无理性的女人,有着女人强烈的情感,女人的诱惑力和女性的理解力,但就是没有理性。赫麦妮早就看透了,对一个没理性的人呼唤理性是没用的,对无知的人最好是不予理睬。卢伯特现在反过来追求这个女性十足、健康而自私的女人了,这是他一时的举动,谁也没办法阻止他。这是一种愚蠢的进退与摆动,最终他会无法承受,会被粉碎并死去的。谁也救不了他。这种在兽欲与精神之间毫无目标的剧烈摇摆会把他撕裂,最终他会毫无意义地从生活中消失掉。这对他一点好处都没有。他也是个没有统一性的人,在生活的最高层次上,他也是个没有理智的人,他谈不上有男子气,不能决定一个女人的命运。
直到伯金回来,她们一直坐在这儿。伯金立时感到了这里的敌对气氛,这是一种强烈、不可调和的敌对感。他咬咬嘴唇装作若无其事地说:
“哈啰,赫麦妮,你回来了?感觉如何?”
“哦,好多了。你好吗?你脸色不太好。”
“哦!我相信戈珍和温妮·克里奇会来喝茶的。她们说过要来的。我们将开个茶会。厄秀拉,你坐哪班车来的?”
他这种试图讨好两个女人的样子很让人讨厌。两个女人都看着他,赫麦妮既恨他又可怜他,厄秀拉则很不耐烦。他很紧张。很明显他今天精神不错,嘴里聊些家常话。厄秀拉对他这种聊闲话的样子既吃惊又生气。他谈起基督教来甚是在行。她对这种话题表现麻木,不予回答。这些在她原来是如此虚伪渺小。直到这时戈珍仍未出现。
“我将去佛罗伦萨过冬天。”赫麦妮终于说。
“是吗?”他说,“那儿太冷了。”
“是的,不过我将同帕拉斯特拉在一起。我会过得很舒服的。”
“你怎么想起去佛罗伦萨的?”
“我也不知道,”赫麦妮缓缓地说。然后她目光沉重地盯着他道:“巴奈斯将开设美学课,奥兰狄斯将发表一系列有关意大利民族政策的演说——”
“都是废话。”他说。
“不,我不这样看。”赫麦妮说。
“那你喜欢哪一个?”
“我都喜欢。巴奈斯是一个开拓者。我又对意大利感兴趣,对意大利即将兴起的民族意识感兴趣。”
“我希望兴起民族意识以外的东西,”伯金说,“这不过意味着一种商业——工业意识罢了。我讨厌意大利,讨厌意大利式的夸夸其谈。我认为巴奈斯还不成熟。”
赫麦妮怀着敌意沉默了一会儿。可不管怎么说,她再一次让伯金回到了她的世界中!她的影响是多么微妙,她似乎顷刻间就将他的注意力引向了自己这方面。他是她的猎物。
“不,你错了,”她说。然后她又象受到神谕启示的女巫一样抬起头疯狂地说:“桑德罗写信告诉我,他受到了极其热情的款待,所有的年轻人,男孩女孩都有。”她用意大利语说。
他厌恶地听着她的狂言,说:
“不管怎么说,我仍不喜欢它。他们的民族主义就是工业主义,对这种工业主义以及他们那浅薄的忌妒心我讨厌透了。”
“我觉得你错了,你错了。”赫麦妮说。“我似乎觉得那纯粹是自然冲动,很美,现代意大利的激情,那是一种激情,对意大利来说——”
“你很了解意大利吗?”厄秀拉问赫麦妮。赫麦妮讨厌别人如此插话,但她还是和气地回答:
“是的,很了解。我小时候同母亲一起在那儿住了好几年。
我母亲就死在佛罗伦萨。”
“哦,是这样。”
人们不说话了,这沉默令厄秀拉和伯金十分痛苦。赫麦妮倒显得平静、心不在焉。伯金脸色苍白,眼睛红红的象在发高烧,他太劳累了。这种紧张的气氛真叫厄秀拉难受!她觉得自己的头让铁条箍紧了。
伯金揿铃叫人送茶。他们不能再等戈珍了。门一开,进来一只猫。
“米西奥!米西奥!”赫麦妮故意压低嗓门儿叫着。小猫看看她,然后缓缓地迈着优雅的步子向她身边走来。
“过来,到这边来。”赫麦妮疼爱地说,似乎她总是长者,是母亲,口气总是带优越感。“来向姨妈问早安。你还记得我,是吗,我的小东西。真的记得我?”她说着缓缓抚摸着它的头。
“它懂意大利话吗?”厄秀拉问,她一点也不懂意大利话。
“懂,”赫麦妮说,“它的母亲是意大利猫,我们在佛罗伦萨时卢伯特生日那天它出生于我的字纸篓里,成了他的生日礼物。”
茶来了,伯金为每个人斟了一杯。奇怪的是,他和赫麦妮之间的亲密关系是那么不容侵犯,令厄秀拉觉得自己象个局外人。那茶杯和上面古老的镀银是赫麦妮和伯金之间的纽带,它似乎属于一个他们共同生活过的世界,那儿对厄秀拉来说是陌生的。在他们那古老文化的环境中,厄秀拉犹如一个暴发户一样。她的习俗与他们的不同,他们的标准跟她的也不一样。但他们的习俗与标准已得到确认,他们得到了岁月的认可,因此而体面。他和她——伯金和赫麦妮共同属于同一旧的传统,属于同一种枯萎的文化。而厄秀拉则是个闯入他们之间的入侵者,她总有这种感觉。
赫麦妮往浅盘里倒了一点奶油。她在伯金屋里毫不费力地显示出自己的权力,这既令厄秀拉发疯又令她泄气。赫麦妮的动作中表现出一种必然,似乎她必须这样不可。赫麦妮托起小猫的头,把奶油送到它嘴边。只见幼猫两只爪子扒住桌沿,低下优雅的头去吮奶油。
“我相信它懂意大利语。”赫麦妮说,“你没忘了你的母语吧?”
赫麦妮苍白细长的手托起猫头阻止它吸吮。猫完全在她的掌握之中。她总是这样显示自己的力量,特别是显示自己控制男性的力量。只见这只雄性小猫忍耐着眨眨眼睛,露出雄性的厌烦表情,舌头舐了舐胡须。这副样子令赫麦妮“卟哧”笑出声来。
“这是个好孩子,这孩子多傲慢!”
她如此平静、奇特地冲猫做出一个逗乐儿的姿态。她很有一种静态美,从某种意义上说她是个社交艺术家。
那猫拒绝看她,毫不在意地躲开她的手指,又去吃奶油。只见它鼻子凑近奶油,但又丝毫不沾一点,嘴巴巴嗒巴嗒地吃着。
“教它在桌子上吃东西,这很不好。”伯金说。
“那倒是。”赫麦妮赞同说。
然后她看着猫,又恢复了她那种嘲弄味的幽默语调:
“他们尽教你干坏事,干坏事。”
她用手指尖缓缓托起小猫雪白的脖子,小猫极有耐性地四下张望着,但又躲闪着不看任何东西,继而缩回脖子,用爪子洗脸。赫麦妮从嗓子眼儿里挤出一声满意的笑。
“俊小伙子——”
小猫再次走上前来,漂亮的前爪搭在盘沿上。赫麦妮忙轻轻地挪开盘子。这种刻意细腻的动作令厄秀拉觉得象戈珍。
“不,你不能把你的小爪子放到小盘子里,爸爸不喜欢。
公猫先生,野极了!”
她的手指头仍然摸着小猫软软的爪子,她的声音也具有某种魔力与霸道腔。
厄秀拉觉得很失意。她想一走了之,可似乎这样做又不好。赫麦妮是永久站得住脚根的,而她厄秀拉却是短暂的,甚至站都没站住。
“我这就走。”她突然说。
伯金几乎有点害怕地看着她——他太怕她生气了。“不必这样急吧?”他忙说。
“是的,”她说,“我这就走。”说完她转身冲着赫麦妮伸出手来不等对方说什么就道了一声“再见。”
“再见——”赫麦妮仍握着她的手。“一定要现在走吗?”
“是的,我想我该走了。”厄秀拉沉下脸,不再看赫麦妮的眼睛。
“你想你要——”
厄秀拉抽出自己的手,转身冲伯金调侃般地道一声“再见”,然后刻不容缓地打开门。
出了门她就气鼓鼓地沿着马路跑了起来。真奇怪,赫麦妮激起了她心中的无名火。厄秀拉知道她向另一个女人让步了,她知道自己显得缺少教养、粗俗、过分。可她不在乎。她只顾在路上奔跑,否则她就会回去当着伯金和赫麦妮的面讽刺他们,因为是他们惹恼了她。
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。
゛臉紅紅....

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等级: 内阁元老
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
举报 只看该作者 23楼  发表于: 2013-10-29 0
。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 23 Excurse


NEXT DAY Birkin sought Ursula out. It happened to be the half-day at the Grammar School. He appeared towards the end of the morning, and asked her, would she drive with him in the afternoon. She consented. But her face was closed and unresponding, and his heart sank.
The afternoon was fine and dim. He was driving the motor-car, and she sat beside him. But still her face was closed against him, unresponding. When she became like this, like a wall against him, his heart contracted.
His life now seemed so reduced, that he hardly cared any more. At moments it seemed to him he did not care a straw whether Ursula or Hermione or anybody else existed or did not exist. Why bother! Why strive for a coherent, satisfied life? Why not drift on in a series of accidents--like a picaresque novel? Why not? Why bother about human relationships? Why take them seriously--male or female? Why form any serious connections at all? Why not be casual, drifting along, taking all for what it was worth?
And yet, still, he was damned and doomed to the old effort at serious living.
`Look,' he said, `what I bought.' The car was running along a broad white road, between autumn trees.
He gave her a little bit of screwed-up paper. She took it and opened it.
`How lovely,' she cried.
She examined the gift.
`How perfectly lovely!' she cried again. `But why do you give them me?' She put the question offensively.
His face flickered with bored irritation. He shrugged his shoulders slightly.
`I wanted to,' he said, coolly.
`But why? Why should you?'
`Am I called on to find reasons?' he asked.
There was a silence, whilst she examined the rings that had been screwed up in the paper.
`I think they are beautiful,' she said, `especially this. This is wonderful-'
It was a round opal, red and fiery, set in a circle of tiny rubies.
`You like that best?' he said.
`I think I do.'
`I like the sapphire,' he said.
`This?'
It was a rose-shaped, beautiful sapphire, with small brilliants.
`Yes,' she said, `it is lovely.' She held it in the light. `Yes, perhaps it is the best--'
`The blue--' he said.
`Yes, wonderful--'
He suddenly swung the car out of the way of a farm-cart. It tilted on the bank. He was a careless driver, yet very quick. But Ursula was frightened. There was always that something regardless in him which terrified her. She suddenly felt he might kill her, by making some dreadful accident with the motor-car. For a moment she was stony with fear.
`Isn't it rather dangerous, the way you drive?' she asked him.
`No, it isn't dangerous,' he said. And then, after a pause: `Don't you like the yellow ring at all?'
It was a squarish topaz set in a frame of steel, or some other similar mineral, finely wrought.
`Yes,' she said, `I do like it. But why did you buy these rings?'
`I wanted them. They are second-hand.'
`You bought them for yourself?'
`No. Rings look wrong on my hands.'
`Why did you buy them then?'
`I bought them to give to you.'
`But why? Surely you ought to give them to Hermione! You belong to her.'
He did not answer. She remained with the jewels shut in her hand. She wanted to try them on her fingers, but something in her would not let her. And moreover, she was afraid her hands were too large, she shrank from the mortification of a failure to put them on any but her little finger. They travelled in silence through the empty lanes.
Driving in a motor-car excited her, she forgot his presence even.
`Where are we?' she asked suddenly.
`Not far from Worksop.'
`And where are we going?'
`Anywhere.'
It was the answer she liked.
She opened her hand to look at the rings. They gave her such pleasure, as they lay, the three circles, with their knotted jewels, entangled in her palm. She would have to try them on. She did so secretly, unwilling to let him see, so that he should not know her finger was too large for them. But he saw nevertheless. He always saw, if she wanted him not to. It was another of his hateful, watchful characteristics.
Only the opal, with its thin wire loop, would go on her ring finger. And she was superstitious. No, there was ill-portent enough, she would not accept this ring from him in pledge.
`Look,' she said, putting forward her hand, that was half-closed and shrinking. `The others don't fit me.'
He looked at the red-glinting, soft stone, on her over-sensitive skin.
`Yes,' he said.
`But opals are unlucky, aren't they?' she said wistfully.
`No. I prefer unlucky things. Luck is vulgar. Who wants what luck would bring? I don't.'
`But why?' she laughed.
And, consumed with a desire to see how the other rings would look on her hand, she put them on her little finger.
`They can be made a little bigger,' he said.
`Yes,' she replied, doubtfully. And she sighed. She knew that, in accepting the rings, she was accepting a pledge. Yet fate seemed more than herself. She looked again at the jewels. They were very beautiful to her eyes--not as ornament, or wealth, but as tiny fragments of loveliness.
`I'm glad you bought them,' she said, putting her hand, half unwillingly, gently on his arm.
He smiled, slightly. He wanted her to come to him. But he was angry at the bottom of his soul, and indifferent. He knew she had a passion for him, really. But it was not finally interesting. There were depths of passion when one became impersonal and indifferent, unemotional. Whereas Ursula was still at the emotional personal level--always so abominably personal. He had taken her as he had never been taken himself. He had taken her at the roots of her darkness and shame--like a demon, laughing over the fountain of mystic corruption which was one of the sources of her being, laughing, shrugging, accepting, accepting finally. As for her, when would she so much go beyond herself as to accept him at the quick of death?
She now became quite happy. The motor-car ran on, the afternoon was soft and dim. She talked with lively interest, analysing people and their motives--Gudrun, Gerald. He answered vaguely. He was not very much interested any more in personalities and in people--people were all different, but they were all enclosed nowadays in a definite limitation, he said; there were only about two great ideas, two great streams of activity remaining, with various forms of reaction therefrom. The reactions were all varied in various people, but they followed a few great laws, and intrinsically there was no difference. They acted and reacted involuntarily according to a few great laws, and once the laws, the great principles, were known, people were no longer mystically interesting. They were all essentially alike, the differences were only variations on a theme. None of them transcended the given terms.
Ursula did not agree--people were still an adventure to her--but--perhaps not as much as she tried to persuade herself. Perhaps there was something mechanical, now, in her interest. Perhaps also her interest was destructive, her analysing was a real tearing to pieces. There was an under-space in her where she did not care for people and their idiosyncracies, even to destroy them. She seemed to touch for a moment this undersilence in herself, she became still, and she turned for a moment purely to Birkin.
`Won't it be lovely to go home in the dark?' she said. `We might have tea rather late--shall we?--and have high tea? Wouldn't that be rather nice?'
`I promised to be at Shortlands for dinner,' he said.
`But--it doesn't matter--you can go tomorrow--'
`Hermione is there,' he said, in rather an uneasy voice. `She is going away in two days. I suppose I ought to say good-bye to her. I shall never see her again.'
Ursula drew away, closed in a violent silence. He knitted his brows, and his eyes began to sparkle again in anger.
`You don't mind, do you?' he asked irritably.
`No, I don't care. Why should I? Why should I mind?' Her tone was jeering and offensive.
`That's what I ask myself,' he said; `why should you mind! But you seem to.' His brows were tense with violent irritation.
`I assure you I don't, I don't mind in the least. Go where you belong--it's what I want you to do.'
`Ah you fool!' he cried, `with your "go where you belong." It's finished between Hermione and me. She means much more to you, if it comes to that, than she does to me. For you can only revolt in pure reaction from her--and to be her opposite is to be her counterpart.'
`Ah, opposite!' cried Ursula. `I know your dodges. I am not taken in by your word-twisting. You belong to Hermione and her dead show. Well, if you do, you do. I don't blame you. But then you've nothing to do with me.
In his inflamed, overwrought exasperation, he stopped the car, and they sat there, in the middle of the country lane, to have it out. It was a crisis of war between them, so they did not see the ridiculousness of their situation.
`If you weren't a fool, if only you weren't a fool,' he cried in bitter despair, `you'd see that one could be decent, even when one has been wrong. I was wrong to go on all those years with Hermione -- it was a deathly process. But after all, one can have a little human decency. But no, you would tear my soul out with your jealousy at the very mention of Hermione's name.'
`I jealous! I -- jealous! You are mistaken if you think that. I'm not jealous in the least of Hermione, she is nothing to me, not that!' And Ursula snapped her fingers. `No, it's you who are a liar. It's you who must return, like a dog to his vomit. It is what Hermione stands for that I hate. I hate it. It is lies, it is false, it is death. But you want it, you can't help it, you can't help yourself. You belong to that old, deathly way of living -then go back to it. But don't come to me, for I've nothing to do with it.'
And in the stress of her violent emotion, she got down from the car and went to the hedgerow, picking unconsciously some flesh-pink spindleberries, some of which were burst, showing their orange seeds.
`Ah, you are a fool,' he cried, bitterly, with some contempt.
`Yes, I am. I am a fool. And thank God for it. I'm too big a fool to swallow your cleverness. God be praised. You go to your women -- go to them -- they are your sort -- you've always had a string of them trailing after you -- and you always will. Go to your spiritual brides -- but don't come to me as well, because I'm not having any, thank you. You're not satisfied, are you? Your spiritual brides can't give you what you want, they aren't common and fleshy enough for you, aren't they? So you come to me, and keep them in the background! You will marry me for daily use. But you'll keep yourself well provided with spiritual brides in the background. I know your dirty little game.' Suddenly a flame ran over her, and she stamped her foot madly on the road, and he winced, afraid that she would strike him. `And I, I'm not spiritual enough, I'm not as spiritual as that Hermione --!' Her brows knitted, her eyes blazed like a tiger's. `Then go to her, that's all I say, go to her, go. Ha, she spiritual - spiritual, she! A dirty materialist as she is. She spiritual? What does she care for, what is her spirituality? What is it?' Her fury seemed to blaze out and burn his face. He shrank a little. `I tell you it's dirt, dirt, and nothing but dirt. And it's dirt you want, you crave for it. Spiritual! Is that spiritual, her bullying, her conceit, her sordid materialism? She's a fishwife, a fishwife, she is such a materialist. And all so sordid. What does she work out to, in the end, with all her social passion, as you call it. Social passion -- what social passion has she? -- show it me! -- where is it? She wants petty, immediate power, she wants the illusion that she is a great woman, that is all. In her soul she's a devilish unbeliever, common as dirt. That's what she is at the bottom. And all the rest is pretence -- but you love it. You love the sham spirituality, it's your food. And why? Because of the dirt underneath. Do you think I don't know the foulness of your sex life -- and her's? -- I do. And it's that foulness you w
ant, you liar. Then have it, have it. You're such a liar.'
She turned away, spasmodically tearing the twigs of spindleberry from the hedge, and fastening them, with vibrating fingers, in the bosom of her coat.
He stood watching in silence. A wonderful tenderness burned in him, at the sight of her quivering, so sensitive fingers: and at the same time he was full of rage and callousness.
`This is a degrading exhibition,' he said coolly.
`Yes, degrading indeed,' she said. `But more to me than to you.'
`Since you choose to degrade yourself,' he said. Again the flash came over her face, the yellow lights concentrated in her eyes.
`You!' she cried. `You! You truth-lover! You purity-monger! It stinks, your truth and your purity. It stinks of the offal you feed on, you scavenger dog, you eater of corpses. You are foul, foul and you must know it. Your purity, your candour, your goodness -- yes, thank you, we've had some. What you are is a foul, deathly thing, obscene, that's what you are, obscene and perverse. You, and love! You may well say, you don't want love. No, you want yourself, and dirt, and death -- that's what you want. You are so perverse, so death-eating. And then --'
`There's a bicycle coming,' he said, writhing under her loud denunciation.
She glanced down the road.
`I don't care,' she cried.
Nevertheless she was silent. The cyclist, having heard the voices raised in altercation, glanced curiously at the man, and the woman, and at the standing motor-car as he passed.
`-- Afternoon,' he said, cheerfully.
`Good-afternoon,' replied Birkin coldly.
They were silent as the man passed into the distance.
A clearer look had come over Birkin's face. He knew she was in the main right. He knew he was perverse, so spiritual on the one hand, and in some strange way, degraded, on the other. But was she herself any better? Was anybody any better?
`It may all be true, lies and stink and all,' he said. `But Hermione's spiritual intimacy is no rottener than your emotional-jealous intimacy. One can preserve the decencies, even to one's enemies: for one's own sake. Hermione is my enemy -- to her last breath! That's why I must bow her off the field.'
`You! You and your enemies and your bows! A pretty picture you make of yourself. But it takes nobody in but yourself. I jealous! I! What I say,' her voice sprang into flame, `I say because it is true, do you see, because you are you, a foul and false liar, a whited sepulchre. That's why I say it. And you hear it.'
`And be grateful,' he added, with a satirical grimace.
`Yes,' she cried, `and if you have a spark of decency in you, be grateful.'
`Not having a spark of decency, however --' he retorted.
`No,' she cried, `you haven't a spark. And so you can go your way, and I'll go mine. It's no good, not the slightest. So you can leave me now, I don't want to go any further with you -- leave me --'
`You don't even know where you are,' he said.
`Oh, don't bother, I assure you I shall be all right. I've got ten shillings in my purse, and that will take me back from anywhere you have brought me to.' She hesitated. The rings were still on her fingers, two on her little finger, one on her ring finger. Still she hesitated.
`Very good,' he said. `The only hopeless thing is a fool.'
`You are quite right,' she said.
Still she hesitated. Then an ugly, malevolent look came over her face, she pulled the rings from her fingers, and tossed them at him. One touched his face, the others hit his coat, and they scattered into the mud.
`And take your rings,' she said, `and go and buy yourself a female elsewhere -- there are plenty to be had, who will be quite glad to share your spiritual mess, -- or to have your physical mess, and leave your spiritual mess to Hermione.'
With which she walked away, desultorily, up the road. He stood motionless, watching her sullen, rather ugly walk. She was sullenly picking and pulling at the twigs of the hedge as she passed. She grew smaller, she seemed to pass out of his sight. A darkness came over his mind. Only a small, mechanical speck of consciousness hovered near him.
He felt tired and weak. Yet also he was relieved. He gave up his old position. He went and sat on the bank. No doubt Ursula was right. It was true, really, what she said. He knew that his spirituality was concomitant of a process of depravity, a sort of pleasure in self-destruction. There really was a certain stimulant in self-destruction, for him -- especially when it was translated spiritually. But then he knew it -- he knew it, and had done. And was not Ursula's way of emotional intimacy, emotional and physical, was it not just as dangerous as Hermione's abstract spiritual intimacy? Fusion, fusion, this horrible fusion of two beings, which every woman and most men insisted on, was it not nauseous and horrible anyhow, whether it was a fusion of the spirit or of the emotional body? Hermione saw herself as the perfect Idea, to which all men must come: And Ursula was the perfect Womb, the bath of birth, to which all men must come! And both were horrible. Why could they not remain individuals, limited by their own limits? Why this dreadful allcomprehensiveness, this hateful tyranny? Why not leave the other being, free, why try to absorb, or melt, or merge? One might abandon oneself utterly to the moments, but not to any other being.
He could not bear to see the rings lying in the pale mud of the road. He picked them up, and wiped them unconsciously on his hands. They were the little tokens of the reality of beauty, the reality of happiness in warm creation. But he had made his hands all dirty and gritty.
There was a darkness over his mind. The terrible knot of consciousness that had persisted there like an obsession was broken, gone, his life was dissolved in darkness over his limbs and his body. But there was a point of anxiety in his heart now. He wanted her to come back. He breathed lightly and regularly like an infant, that breathes innocently, beyond the touch of responsibility.
She was coming back. He saw her drifting desultorily under the high hedge, advancing towards him slowly. He did not move, he did not look again. He was as if asleep, at peace, slumbering and utterly relaxed.
She came up and stood before him, hanging her head.
`See what a flower I found you,' she said, wistfully holding a piece of purple-red bell-heather under his face. He saw the clump of coloured bells, and the tree-like, tiny branch: also her hands, with their over-fine, over-sensitive skin.
`Pretty!' he said, looking up at her with a smile, taking the flower. Everything had become simple again, quite simple, the complexity gone into nowhere. But he badly wanted to cry: except that he was weary and bored by emotion.
Then a hot passion of tenderness for her filled his heart. He stood up and looked into her face. It was new and oh, so delicate in its luminous wonder and fear. He put his arms round her, and she hid her face on his shoulder.
It was peace, just simple peace, as he stood folding her quietly there on the open lane. It was peace at last. The old, detestable world of tension had passed away at last, his soul was strong and at ease.
She looked up at him. The wonderful yellow light in her eyes now was soft and yielded, they were at peace with each other. He kissed her, softly, many, many times. A laugh came into her eyes.
`Did I abuse you?' she asked.
He smiled too, and took her hand, that was so soft and given.
`Never mind,' she said, `it is all for the good.' He kissed her again, softly, many times.
`Isn't it?' she said.
`Certainly,' he replied. `Wait! I shall have my own back.'
She laughed suddenly, with a wild catch in her voice, and flung her arms around him.
`You are mine, my love, aren't you?' she cried straining him close.
`Yes,' he said, softly.
His voice was so soft and final, she went very still, as if under a fate which had taken her. Yes, she acquiesced -- but it was accomplished without her acquiescence. He was kissing her quietly, repeatedly, with a soft, still happiness that almost made her heart stop beating.
`My love!' she cried, lifting her face and looking with frightened, gentle wonder of bliss. Was it all real? But his eyes were beautiful and soft and immune from stress or excitement, beautiful and smiling lightly to her, smiling with her. She hid her face on his shoulder, hiding before him, because he could see her so completely. She knew he loved her, and she was afraid, she was in a strange element, a new heaven round about her. She wished he were passionate, because in passion she was at home. But this was so still and frail, as space is more frightening than force.
Again, quickly, she lifted her head.
`Do you love me?' she said, quickly, impulsively.
`Yes,' he replied, not heeding her motion, only her stillness.
She knew it was true. She broke away.
`So you ought,' she said, turning round to look at the road. `Did you find the rings?'
`Yes.'
`Where are they?'
`In my pocket.'
She put her hand into his pocket and took them out.
She was restless.
`Shall we go?' she said.
`Yes,' he answered. And they mounted to the car once more, and left behind them this memorable battle-field.
They drifted through the wild, late afternoon, in a beautiful motion that was smiling and transcendent. His mind was sweetly at ease, the life flowed through him as from some new fountain, he was as if born out of the cramp of a womb.
`Are you happy?' she asked him, in her strange, delighted way.
`Yes,' he said.
`So am I,' she cried in sudden ecstacy, putting her arm round him and clutching him violently against her, as he steered the motor-car.
`Don't drive much more,' she said. `I don't want you to be always doing something.'
`No,' he said. `We'll finish this little trip, and then we'll be free.'
`We will, my love, we will,' she cried in delight, kissing him as he turned to her.
He drove on in a strange new wakefulness, the tension of his consciousness broken. He seemed to be conscious all over, all his body awake with a simple, glimmering awareness, as if he had just come awake, like a thing that is born, like a bird when it comes out of an egg, into a new universe.
They dropped down a long hill in the dusk, and suddenly Ursula recognised on her right hand, below in the hollow, the form of Southwell Minster.
`Are we here!' she cried with pleasure.
The rigid, sombre, ugly cathedral was settling under the gloom of the coming night, as they entered the narrow town, the golden lights showed like slabs of revelation, in the shop-windows.
`Father came here with mother,' she said, `when they first knew each other. He loves it -- he loves the Minster. Do you?'
`Yes. It looks like quartz crystals sticking up out of the dark hollow. We'll have our high tea at the Saracen's Head.'
As they descended, they heard the Minster bells playing a hymn, when the hour had struck six. Glory to thee my God this night For all the blessings of the light -- So, to Ursula's ear, the tune fell out, drop by drop, from the unseen sky on to the dusky town. It was like dim, bygone centuries sounding. It was all so far off. She stood in the old yard of the inn, smelling of straw and stables and petrol. Above, she could see the first stars. What was it all? This was no actual world, it was the dreamworld of one's childhood -- a great circumscribed reminiscence. The world had become unreal. She herself was a strange, transcendent reality.
They sat together in a little parlour by the fire.
`Is it true?' she said, wondering.
`What?'
`Everything -- is everything true?'
`The best is true,' he said, grimacing at her.
`Is it?' she replied, laughing, but unassured.
She looked at him. He seemed still so separate. New eyes were opened in her soul. She saw a strange creature from another world, in him. It was as if she were enchanted, and everything were metamorphosed. She recalled again the old magic of the Book of Genesis, where the sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they were fair. And he was one of these, one of these strange creatures from the beyond, looking down at her, and seeing she was fair.
He stood on the hearth-rug looking at her, at her face that was upturned exactly like a flower, a fresh, luminous flower, glinting faintly golden with the dew of the first light. And he was smiling faintly as if there were no speech in the world, save the silent delight of flowers in each other. Smilingly they delighted in each other's presence, pure presence, not to be thought of, even known. But his eyes had a faintly ironical contraction.
And she was drawn to him strangely, as in a spell. Kneeling on the hearth-rug before him, she put her arms round his loins, and put her face against his thigh. Riches! Riches! She was overwhelmed with a sense of a heavenful of riches.
`We love each other,' she said in delight.
`More than that,' he answered, looking down at her with his glimmering, easy face.
Unconsciously, with her sensitive fingertips, she was tracing the back of his thighs, following some mysterious life-flow there. She had discovered something, something more than wonderful, more wonderful than life itself. It was the strange mystery of his life-motion, there, at the back of the thighs, down the flanks. It was a strange reality of his being, the very stuff of being, there in the straight downflow of the thighs. It was here she discovered him one of the sons of God such as were in the beginning of the world, not a man, something other, something more.
This was release at last. She had had lovers, she had known passion. But this was neither love nor passion. It was the daughters of men coming back to the sons of God, the strange inhuman sons of God who are in the beginning.
Her face was now one dazzle of released, golden light, as she looked up at him, and laid her hands full on his thighs, behind, as he stood before her. He looked down at her with a rich bright brow like a diadem above his eyes. She was beautiful as a new marvellous flower opened at his knees, a paradisal flower she was, beyond womanhood, such a flower of luminousness. Yet something was tight and unfree in him. He did not like this crouching, this radiance -- not altogether.
It was all achieved, for her. She had found one of the sons of God from the Beginning, and he had found one of the first most luminous daughters of men.
She traced with her hands the line of his loins and thighs, at the back, and a living fire ran through her, from him, darkly. It was a dark flood of electric passion she released from him, drew into herself. She had established a rich new circuit, a new current of passional electric energy, between the two of them, released from the darkest poles of the body and established in perfect circuit. It was a dark fire of electricity that rushed from him to her, and flooded them both with rich peace, satisfaction.
`My love,' she cried, lifting her face to him, her eyes, her mouth open in transport.
`My love,' he answered, bending and kissing her, always kissing her.
She closed her hands over the full, rounded body of his loins, as he stooped over her, she seemed to touch the quick of the mystery of darkness that was bodily him. She seemed to faint beneath, and he seemed to faint, stooping over her. It was a perfect passing away for both of them, and at the same time the most intolerable accession into being, the marvellous fullness of immediate gratification, overwhelming, outflooding from the source of the deepest life-force, the darkest, deepest, strangest life-source of the human body, at the back and base of the loins.
After a lapse of stillness, after the rivers of strange dark fluid richness had passed over her, flooding, carrying away her mind and flooding down her spine and down her knees, past her feet, a strange flood, sweeping away everything and leaving her an essential new being, she was left quite free, she was free in complete ease, her complete self. So she rose, stilly and blithe, smiling at him. He stood before her, glimmering, so awfully real, that her heart almost stopped beating. He stood there in his strange, whole body, that had its marvellous fountains, like the bodies of the sons of God who were in the beginning. There were strange fountains of his body, more mysterious and potent than any she had imagined or known, more satisfying, ah, finally, mystically-physically satisfying. She had thought there was no source deeper than the phallic source. And now, behold, from the smitten rock of the man's body, from the strange marvellous flanks and thighs, deeper, further in mystery than the phallic source, came the floods of ineffable darkness and ineffable riches.
They were glad, and they could forget perfectly. They laughed, and went to the meal provided. There was a venison pasty, of all things, a large broad-faced cut ham, eggs and cresses and red beet-root, and medlars and apple-tart, and tea.
`What good things!' she cried with pleasure. `How noble it looks! -- shall I pour out the tea? --'
She was usually nervous and uncertain at performing these public duties, such as giving tea. But today she forgot, she was at her ease, entirely forgetting to have misgivings. The tea-pot poured beautifully from a proud slender spout. Her eyes were warm with smiles as she gave him his tea. She had learned at last to be still and perfect.
`Everything is ours,' she said to him.
`Everything,' he answered.
She gave a queer little crowing sound of triumph.
`I'm so glad!' she cried, with unspeakable relief.
`So am I,' he said. `But I'm thinking we'd better get out of our responsibilities as quick as we can.'
`What responsibilities?' she asked, wondering.
`We must drop our jobs, like a shot.'
A new understanding dawned into her face.
`Of course,' she said, `there's that.'
`We must get out,' he said. `There's nothing for it but to get out, quick.'
She looked at him doubtfully across the table.
`But where?' she said.
`I don't know,' he said. `We'll just wander about for a bit.'
Again she looked at him quizzically.
`I should be perfectly happy at the Mill,' she said.
`It's very near the old thing,' he said. `Let us wander a bit.'
His voice could be so soft and happy-go-lucky, it went through her veins like an exhilaration. Nevertheless she dreamed of a valley, and wild gardens, and peace. She had a desire too for splendour -- an aristocratic extravagant splendour. Wandering seemed to her like restlessness, dissatisfaction.
`Where will you wander to?' she asked.
`I don't know. I feel as if I would just meet you and we'd set off -- just towards the distance.'
`But where can one go?' she asked anxiously. `After all, there is only the world, and none of it is very distant.'
`Still,' he said, `I should like to go with you -- nowhere. It would be rather wandering just to nowhere. That's the place to get to -- nowhere. One wants to wander away from the world's somewheres, into our own nowhere.'
Still she meditated.
`You see, my love,' she said, `I'm so afraid that while we are only people, we've got to take the world that's given -- because there isn't any other.'
`Yes there is,' he said. `There's somewhere where we can be free -somewhere where one needn't wear much clothes -- none even -- where one meets a few people who have gone through enough, and can take things for granted -- where you be yourself, without bothering. There is somewhere -- there are one or two people --'
`But where --?' she sighed.
`Somewhere -- anywhere. Let's wander off. That's the thing to do -- let's wander off.'
`Yes --' she said, thrilled at the thought of travel. But to her it was only travel.
`To be free,' he said. `To be free, in a free place, with a few other people!'
`Yes,' she said wistfully. Those `few other people' depressed her.
`It isn't really a locality, though,' he said. `It's a perfected relation between you and me, and others -- the perfect relation -- so that we are free together.'
`It is, my love, isn't it,' she said. `It's you and me. It's you and me, isn't it?' She stretched out her arms to him. He went across and stooped to kiss her face. Her arms closed round him again, her hands spread upon his shoulders, moving slowly there, moving slowly on his back, down his back slowly, with a strange recurrent, rhythmic motion, yet moving slowly down, pressing mysteriously over his loins, over his flanks. The sense of the awfulness of riches that could never be impaired flooded her mind like a swoon, a death in most marvellous possession, mystic-sure. She possessed him so utterly and intolerably, that she herself lapsed out. And yet she was only sitting still in the chair, with her hands pressed upon him, and lost.
Again he softly kissed her.
`We shall never go apart again,' he murmured quietly. And she did not speak, but only pressed her hands firmer down upon the source of darkness in him.
They decided, when they woke again from the pure swoon, to write their resignations from the world of work there and then. She wanted this.
He rang the bell, and ordered note-paper without a printed address. The waiter cleared the table.
`Now then,' he said, `yours first. Put your home address, and the date -then "Director of Education, Town Hall -- Sir --" Now then! -- I don't know how one really stands -- I suppose one could get out of it in less than month -- Anyhow "Sir -- I beg to resign my post as classmistress in the Willey Green Grammar School. I should be very grateful if you would liberate me as soon as possible, without waiting for the expiration of the month's notice." That'll do. Have you got it? Let me look. "Ursula Brangwen." Good! Now I'll write mine. I ought to give them three months, but I can plead health. I can arrange it all right.'
He sat and wrote out his formal resignation.
`Now,' he said, when the envelopes were sealed and addressed, `shall we post them here, both together? I know Jackie will say, "Here's a coincidence!" when he receives them in all their identity. Shall we let him say it, or not?'
`I don't care,' she said.
`No --?' he said, pondering.
`It doesn't matter, does it?' she said.
`Yes,' he replied. `Their imaginations shall not work on us. I'll post yours here, mine after. I cannot be implicated in their imaginings.'
He looked at her with his strange, non-human singleness.
`Yes, you are right,' she said.
She lifted her face to him, all shining and open. It was as if he might enter straight into the source of her radiance. His face became a little distracted.
`Shall we go?' he said.
`As you like,' she replied.
They were soon out of the little town, and running through the uneven lanes of the country. Ursula nestled near him, into his constant warmth, and watched the pale-lit revelation racing ahead, the visible night. Sometimes it was a wide old road, with grass-spaces on either side, flying magic and elfin in the greenish illumination, sometimes it was trees looming overhead, sometimes it was bramble bushes, sometimes the walls of a crew-yard and the butt of a barn.
`Are you going to Shortlands to dinner?' Ursula asked him suddenly. He started.
`Good God!' he said. `Shortlands! Never again. Not that. Besides we should be too late.'
`Where are we going then -- to the Mill?'
`If you like. Pity to go anywhere on this good dark night. Pity to come out of it, really. Pity we can't stop in the good darkness. It is better than anything ever would be -- this good immediate darkness.'
She sat wondering. The car lurched and swayed. She knew there was no leaving him, the darkness held them both and contained them, it was not to be surpassed Besides she had a full mystic knowledge of his suave loins of darkness, dark-clad and suave, and in this knowledge there was some of the inevitability and the beauty of fate, fate which one asks for, which one accepts in full.
He sat still like an Egyptian Pharoah, driving the car. He felt as if he were seated in immemorial potency, like the great carven statues of real Egypt, as real and as fulfilled with subtle strength, as these are, with a vague inscrutable smile on the lips. He knew what it was to have the strange and magical current of force in his back and loins, and down his legs, force so perfect that it stayed him immobile, and left his face subtly, mindlessly smiling. He knew what it was to be awake and potent in that other basic mind, the deepest physical mind. And from this source he had a pure and magic control, magical, mystical, a force in darkness, like electricity.
It was very difficult to speak, it was so perfect to sit in this pure living silence, subtle, full of unthinkable knowledge and unthinkable force, upheld immemorially in timeless force, like the immobile, supremely potent Egyptians, seated forever in their living, subtle silence.
`We need not go home,' he said. `This car has seats that let down and make a bed, and we can lift the hood.'
She was glad and frightened. She cowered near to him.
`But what about them at home?' she said.
`Send a telegram.'
Nothing more was said. They ran on in silence. But with a sort of second consciousness he steered the car towards a destination. For he had the free intelligence to direct his own ends. His arms and his breast and his head were rounded and living like those of the Greek, he had not the unawakened straight arms of the Egyptian, nor the sealed, slumbering head. A lambent intelligence played secondarily above his pure Egyptian concentration in darkness.
They came to a village that lined along the road. The car crept slowly along, until he saw the post-office. Then he pulled up.
`I will send a telegram to your father,' he said. `I will merely say "spending the night in town," shall I?'
`Yes,' she answered. She did not want to be disturbed into taking thought.
She watched him move into the post-office. It was also a shop, she saw. Strange, he was. Even as he went into the lighted, public place he remained dark and magic, the living silence seemed the body of reality in him, subtle, potent, indiscoverable. There he was! In a strange uplift of elation she saw him, the being never to be revealed, awful in its potency, mystic and real. This dark, subtle reality of him, never to be translated, liberated her into perfection, her own perfected being. She too was dark and fulfilled in silence.
He came out, throwing some packages into the car.
`There is some bread, and cheese, and raisins, and apples, and hard chocolate,' he said, in his voice that was as if laughing, because of the unblemished stillness and force which was the reality in him. She would have to touch him. To speak, to see, was nothing. It was a travesty to look and to comprehend the man there. Darkness and silence must fall perfectly on her, then she could know mystically, in unrevealed touch. She must lightly, mindlessly connect with him, have the knowledge which is death of knowledge, the reality of surety in not-knowing.
Soon they had run on again into the darkness. She did not ask where they were going, she did not care. She sat in a fullness and a pure potency that was like apathy, mindless and immobile. She was next to him, and hung in a pure rest, as a star is hung, balanced unthinkably. Still there remained a dark lambency of anticipation. She would touch him. With perfect fine finger-tips of reality she would touch the reality in him, the suave, pure, untranslatable reality of his loins of darkness. To touch, mindlessly in darkness to come in pure touching upon the living reality of him, his suave perfect loins and thighs of darkness, this was her sustaining anticipation.
And he too waited in the magical steadfastness of suspense, for her to take this knowledge of him as he had taken it of her. He knew her darkly, with the fullness of dark knowledge. Now she would know him, and he too would be liberated. He would be night-free, like an Egyptian, steadfast in perfectly suspended equilibrium, pure mystic nodality of physical being. They would give each other this star-equilibrium which alone is freedom.
She saw that they were running among trees -- great old trees with dying bracken undergrowth. The palish, gnarled trunks showed ghostly, and like old priests in the hovering distance, the fern rose magical and mysterious. It was a night all darkness, with low cloud. The motor-car advanced slowly.
`Where are we?' she whispered.
`In Sherwood Forest.'
It was evident he knew the place. He drove softly, watching. Then they came to a green road between the trees. They turned cautiously round, and were advancing between the oaks of the forest, down a green lane. The green lane widened into a little circle of grass, where there was a small trickle of water at the bottom of a sloping bank. The car stopped.
`We will stay here,' he said, `and put out the lights.'
He extinguished the lamps at once, and it was pure night, with shadows of trees like realities of other, nightly being. He threw a rug on to the bracken, and they sat in stillness and mindless silence. There were faint sounds from the wood, but no disturbance, no possible disturbance, the world was under a strange ban, a new mystery had supervened. They threw off their clothes, and he gathered her to him, and found her, found the pure lambent reality of her forever invisible flesh. Quenched, inhuman, his fingers upon her unrevealed nudity were the fingers of silence upon silence, the body of mysterious night upon the body of mysterious night, the night masculine and feminine, never to be seen with the eye, or known with the mind, only known as a palpable revelation of living otherness.
She had her desire of him, she touched, she received the maximum of unspeakable communication in touch, dark, subtle, positively silent, a magnificent gift and give again, a perfect acceptance and yielding, a mystery, the reality of that which can never be known, vital, sensual reality that can never be transmuted into mind content, but remains outside, living body of darkness and silence and subtlety, the mystic body of reality. She had her desire fulfilled. He had his desire fulfilled. For she was to him what he was to her, the immemorial magnificence of mystic, palpable, real otherness.
They slept the chilly night through under the hood of the car, a night of unbroken sleep. It was already high day when he awoke. They looked at each other and laughed, then looked away, filled with darkness and secrecy. Then they kissed and remembered the magnificence of the night. It was so magnificent, such an inheritance of a universe of dark reality, that they were afraid to seem to remember. They hid away the remembrance and the knowledge.
 
第二天伯金就来找厄秀拉。那是将近中午时,伯金来到小学校问厄秀拉是否愿意同他一起驾车出游。厄秀拉同意了,但她脸色阴沉着,毫无表情。见她这样,他的心沉了下去。
下午天气晴朗,光线柔和。伯金开着汽车,厄秀拉就坐在他身边,但她的脸色依旧阴沉着毫无表情。每当她这样象一堵墙似的冲着他,他的心里就十分难受。
他的生命现在是太微不足道了,他几乎对什么都不在乎了。有时他似乎一点都不在乎厄秀拉、赫麦妮或别人是否存在。何苦麻烦呢!为什么非要追求一种和谐、满意的生活?为什么不在一连串偶然事件中游荡——就象流浪汉小说那样?为什么不呢?为什么要去在乎什么人与人之间的关系?为什么那么严肃地对待别人?为什么要与别人结成如此严肃的关系?为什么不随便些、游游荡荡、承认一切都有其价值?
可说到底,他是命中注定要走老路、要认真生活的。
“看,”他说,“看我买了些什么?”汽车在雪白宽阔的路上行驶着,沿路两旁都是树木。
他给她一卷纸,她打开就看。
“太美了。”她看着礼物说。
“真是太美了!”她又叫起来。“可你为什么把它们给我?”
她挑战地问。
他脸上现出一丝厌烦和愤愤然的表情,然后耸了耸肩。
“我想这样。”他冷漠地说。
“可为什么?你这是为什么?”
“一定要我做出解释吗?”他说。
她一言不发地看着包在纸里的戒指。
“我觉得它们太美了,”她说,“特别是这一只,太美妙了——”
这只戒指上镶着火蛋白石,周围是一圈细小的红宝石。
“你最喜欢那一只吗?”他问。
“是的。”
“可我喜欢蓝宝石的。”他说。
“这一只吗?”
这是一只漂亮的玫瑰型蓝宝石戒指,上面点缀着一些小钻石。
“是啊,”她说,“很好看。”她把戒指举到阳光下看了看说。“也许,这才是最好的——”
“蓝的——”他说。
“对,很奇妙——”
突然他一扭方向盘,汽车才避免了与一辆农家马车相撞。但汽车却倾斜在岸边。他开车很马虎,老爱开飞车。厄秀拉可吓坏了。他那种莽撞劲儿总让她害怕。她突然感到他会开车出事,她会死于车祸。想到此她一时心凉了。
“你这么开车不是有点太危险了吗?”她问。
“不,不危险,”他说,然后他又问她:“你不喜欢黄色的戒指吗?”
这是一只镶在钢架之类的金属中的方黄玉戒指,做工很精细。
“喜欢的,”她说,“可是你为什么买这些戒指?”
“我需要。都是旧货。”
“你买来是自己用吗?”
“不是。我的手戴戒指不象样。”
“那你买它们干什么?”
“买来送给你。”
“为什么给我?你肯定是买来送给赫麦妮的!你属于她。”
他没说话。她手里仍攥着这些首饰。她想戴上这几只戒指,可她心中什么东西在阻挡她这样做。另外她恐怕自己的手太大戴不下,她要避免戴不下戒指丢丑,所以只在小手指上试了试。他们就这样在空空荡荡的街上驾车转游。
坐汽车很令她激动,以至于她忘记了自己的现状。
“我们到哪儿了?”她突然问。
“离作坊不远。”
“我们去哪儿呢?”
“哪儿都行。”
她就喜欢这样的答复。
她张开手,看着手中的戒指。三个镶有宝石的圆圆的戒指摆在她的手掌里,她真想戴上试试,但又不想让伯金看见,否则他会发现她的手指头太粗。但他还是发现了。凡是她不想让他看到的他偏偏都能看到。他这么眼尖,真让人恨。
只有那只镶火蛋白石的戒指环圈比较薄,她的手指头可以伸进去。但她这人很迷信,觉得有一种不祥之兆。不,她不要他这象征性的戒指。这等于把自己许给他了。
“看,”她向他伸出半握着的手。“别的几个都不合适。”
他看到柔和的宝石在她过于敏感的皮肤上闪着红光。
“是不合适。”他说。
“火蛋白石不吉利,是吗?”她若有所思地说。
“不过我喜欢不吉利的东西。吉利很庸俗。谁需要吉利所带来的一切?反正我不需要。”
“那是为什么呢?”她笑道。
她急于想看看其它两只戒指戴在自己手上是什么样,于是她就把它们穿在小手指上。
“这些戒指本可以再做大一点的。”他说。
“对,”她将信将疑地说。然后她叹了一口气。她知道,接受了戒指就等于接受了一种约束。但命运是不可抗拒的。她又看看戒指,在她眼里它们极漂亮——不是装饰品或财富,而是爱物。
“你买了这些戒指真叫我高兴。”说着她不太情愿地把手轻轻搭在他的胳膊上。
他微微一笑。他需要她亲近他,但他内心深处却是愤然、漠然的。他知道她对他怀有一股激情,这是真的。但这不是彻底的激情。更深层的激情是当一个人变得超越自身,超越情感时爆发出来的。而厄秀拉仍停留在情感与自我的阶段——总是无法超越自身。他接受了她,但他并没有被她占有。他接受了黑暗、羞赧的她——象一个魔鬼俯视着神秘腐朽的源泉——她生命的源泉。他笑着、抖动着双肩,最终接受了她。至于她,什么时候她才能超越自己,在死亡的意义上接受他?
这会儿她变得很幸福。汽车在向前行驶,午后的天气柔和、晴朗。她饶有兴趣地聊着天儿,分析着人们和他们的动机——戈珍和杰拉德。他含含糊糊地回答着。他对于各种人的性格什么的并不那么感兴趣——人们各不相同,但都受着同样的局限。大约只有两种伟大的观念,只有两条巨大的运动流,从中派生出多种形式的回流。这种回流——反逆流在不同的人身上表现不一样,但人们遵循的不过是几条大的规律,从本质上说都没什么区别。他们运动或反运动,毫不受意志支配地遵循着几条大规律,而一旦这些规律和大的原则为人所知,人就不再神秘,也就没什么意思了。人们从本质上说都一样,他们的不同不过是一个主旋律的变奏。他们当中谁也无法超越天命。
厄秀拉不同意这种说法,她认为了解人仍旧是一种历险,不过这也许比不上自己过图说服自己更是一种历险。或许现在她的兴趣有点象机器一样呆板。或许她的兴趣是破坏性的,她的分析真象在把东西肢解。在她心目中,她并不在意别人和别人的特殊之处,甚至别人遭毁灭她都不在乎。一时间她似乎触到了心中的这一想法,她沉静下来,只把兴趣全转到伯金身上。
“在暮色中回去不是很美吗?”她说,“我们稍晚一点喝茶好吗?喝浓茶,好吗?”
“我答应人家到肖特兰兹吃晚饭的。”他说。
“可这没关系,你,你可以明天再去嘛。”
“赫麦妮在那儿,”他很不安地说。“她两天以后就会离开这儿。我想我该跟她告别,以后我再也不见她了。”
厄秀拉同他拉开了距离,沉默不语了。伯金眉毛紧蹙着,眼里闪动着怒火。
“你不在意吧?”他有点恼火地说。
“不,我不在意。我为什么要在意呢?为什么?”她的话很挖苦人。
“我是在问我自己,”他说,“你为什么在意?!可你看上去就是不满意。”他气得眉毛紧蹙成一团。
“请相信,我不在乎,一点儿都不在乎!去你应该去的地方吧——我就希望你这样做。”
“你这个傻瓜!”他叫道。“我和赫麦妮的关系已经完了。她对你来说比对我还重要。你同她作对,说明你同她是一类人。”
“作对!”厄秀拉叫了起来,“我知道你的诡计。我才不会让你的花言巧语骗了我呢。你属于赫麦妮,被她迷住了。你愿意,就去吧。我不谴责你。可那样的话,你我就没什么关系了。”
伯金气愤极了,狂怒中停下了车。于是,他们就坐在村路中央的车中,把这件事说个明白。这是他们之间的一场战争危机,他们并未看出这种境况的荒唐之处。
“如果你不是个傻瓜,如果你还不傻,”他痛苦绝望地叫着,“你就该知道,甚至当你错的时候你也应该体面些。这些年我同赫麦妮保持关系是错误的,这是个死亡的过程。但不管怎么说,人还是要有人的面子的。可你却一提赫麦妮就满怀妒嫉地要把我的心都撕碎。”
“妒嫉!妒嫉!我妒嫉!你这样想就错了。我一点都不妒嫉赫麦妮,对我来说她一钱不值。压根儿谈不上妒嫉!”说着她打了一个响指。“你撒谎。你要找回赫麦妮,就象狗要寻到自己吐出过的东西一样。我恨的是赫麦妮所主张的。我所以恨,是因为她说的是假话。可你需要这些假话,你拿它没办法,拿你自己也没办法。你属于那个旧的、死气沉沉的生活方式,那就回到那种生活方式中去吧。但别来找我,我跟它可没任何关系。”
她一气之下跳下汽车到树篱前,情不自禁地摘着粉红色的桨果,有些果子已经绽开,露出桔红色的籽。
“你可真是个傻瓜。”他有点轻蔑地叫着。
“对,我傻,我是傻。感谢上帝让我这么傻。我太傻了,无法品味你的聪明。感谢上帝吧。你去找你的女人,去吧,她们跟你是一类人,你总有一批这样的人追随你,总有。去找你精神上的新娘去吧,别来找我,因为我没她们那种精神,谢谢你了。你不满意,是吗?你的精神新娘无法给予你所需要的东西,她们对你来说并不够平易近人、不够肉感,是吗?于是你甩下她们来找我!你想跟我结婚过家常生活,可又要暗中与她们进行精神上的往来!我懂你这套肮脏的把戏。”一股怒火燃遍全身,她双脚发疯地跺着地,于是他害怕了,深怕她打他。“而我,我并不够精神化,在这方面我不如赫麦妮——!”说着,她的双眉蹙紧了,目光老虎般地闪烁着。“那就去找她吧,我要说的就这句话,去找她吧,去。哈哈,她,精神——精神,她!她是个肮脏的物质主义者。她精神化吗?她关注的是什么?她的精神又是什么?”她的怒气似乎化作烈火喷将出来炙烤着他的脸。他后退了。“我告诉你吧,这太肮脏,肮脏,肮脏。你要的就是肮脏,你渴求的就是肮脏。精神化?!难道她的霸道、骄横、肮脏的物质主义就是精神化?她是一个泼妇,泼妇,就是这样的物质主义者。太肮脏了。她那股子社交激情到底会怎样?社交激情,她有什么样的社交激情?让我看看!在哪儿?她需要垂手可得的小权力,她需要一种伟女人的幻觉,就是这么回事。在她的灵魂中,她是一个凶恶的异教徒,很肮脏。从根本上说她就是这么个人。其余的全是装的——可你喜欢这个。你喜欢这种虚假的精神,这是你的食粮。为什么?那是潜伏着的肮脏所至。你以为我不知道你的性生活有多肮脏吗?还有她的,我也知晓。而你需要的正是这种肮脏,你这骗子。那就过这肮脏生活去吧,去吧。你这骗子。”
她转过身去,战栗着从篱笆上摘下桨果,双手颤抖着把桨果戴在胸部。
他默默地看着她。一看到她战栗着的敏感的手指,他心中就燃起一股奇妙的温柔之情,但同时他心里也感到气愤、冰冷。
“这种表现很卑劣。”他冷冷地说。
“是的,的确卑劣,”她说,“对我来说更是如此。”
“看来你是愿意降低自己的身份的,”他说。这时他看到她脸上燃起火焰,目光中凝聚着黄色的光点。
“你!”她叫道,“你!好一个热爱真理的人!好一个纯洁的人!你的真理和纯洁让人听着恶心。你这个垃圾堆里刨食的狗,食死尸的狗。你肮脏,肮脏,你必须明白这一点。你纯洁,公正,善良,是的,谢谢你,你有那么点纯洁、公正、善良。可你的真实面目是,猥亵,肮脏,你就是这么个人,猥亵、变态。你还爱!你也可以说你不需要爱。不,你需要你自己、肮脏和死亡——你要的就是这个。你太变态,太僵死,还有——”
“过来一辆自行车,”他说。他让她那大声的谴责搞得很不安。
她朝路上看去。
“我才不管什么自行车呢。”她叫道。
她总算沉默了。那骑车人听到这边的争吵声,奇怪地看着这一男一女,又看看停在路上的汽车。
“你好,”他快活地说。
那人走远了,他们沉默了。
伯金脸色变开朗了。他知道总的来说厄秀拉是对的。他知道自己心理变态了,一方面过于精神化,另一方面,自己卑劣得出奇。可是难道她比自己强多少吗?难道别人就能强多少?
“或许这是对的。”他说。“但是赫麦妮的意淫并不比你的那种情感上的妒忌更坏。人甚至应该在自己的敌人面前保持自己的体面。赫麦妮至死都会是我的敌人!我必须用箭把她赶走。”
“你!你,你的敌人,你的箭!你把你自己描绘得挺美啊。可这幅画中只有你一个人,没别人。我嫉妒!我说那些话,”她大叫着,“是因为那是事实,明白吗?你是你,一个肮脏虚伪的骗子,一个伪君子。我说的就是这个,你全听到了。”
“很感谢你,”他调侃地扮个鬼脸道。
“是的,”她叫道,“如果你还有点体面,就该感谢我。”
“可是,我没一点体面——”他反讥道。
“没有,”她喊道,“你没一丁点儿。所以,你可以走你自己的路,我走我的路。没什么好处,一点也没有。你可以把我留在这儿了,我不想跟你多走一步,留下我——”
“你甚至不知道你在哪里——”他说。
“不必麻烦了,请放心,我不会出问题的。我钱包里有十个先令,你把我弄到哪儿,这点钱也够我回去的路费。”她犹豫着。她手上还戴着戒指呢,两只戴在小手指上,一只戴在无名指上。她仍犹豫着不动。
“很好,”他说,“最没希望的是傻瓜。”
“你说得很对。”她说。
她又犹豫了片刻。脸上露出丑陋、恶毒的表情,从手指上撸下戒指冲他扔过去。一只打在他脸上,另外两只掉到衣服上又散落在泥土中。
“收回你的戒指吧,”她说,“去买个女人吧,哪儿都可以买到,有许多人愿意与你共享那些乱哄哄的精神或享有你的肉欲,把精神留给赫麦妮。”
说完她就漫不经心地上路了。伯金伫立着看着她阴沉地走远了,一边走一边揪扯着篱笆上的树枝子。她的身影渐渐变小,似乎在他的视线中消失了。他觉得头脑中一片黑暗,只有一点意识的游丝在抖动着。
他感到疲惫虚弱,但也感到释然。他改变了下姿势,走过去坐在岸边上。毫无疑问厄秀拉是对的。她说的的确是真情。他知道他的精神化是伴随着一种坠落的,那是一种自我毁灭的快感。自我毁灭中的确有一种快感,对他来说当自我毁灭在精神上转化成另一种形式出现时更是如此。他知道,他这样做了。还有,难道厄秀拉的情感之淫不是同赫麦妮那种深奥的意淫同样危险吗?熔化,熔化,这两种生命的熔合,每个男女都坚持这样做,不管是精神实体还是情感实体,不是都很令人恶心、可怕吗?赫麦妮觉得自己是一个完整的观念,所有的男人都得追随她,而厄秀拉则是完整的母腹,是新生儿的浴池,所有的男人都必须奔向她!她们都很可怕。她们为什么不是个性化的人,为什么不受到自身的限制?她们为什么如此可怕得完整,如此可憎得霸道?她们为什么不让别人自由,为什么要溶解人家?一个人完全可以沉湎于重大的事情,但不是沉湎于别的生命。
他不忍心看着戒指陷在路上的泥土中。他拾起戒指,情不自禁地用手擦着上面的泥土。这戒指是美的象征,是热烈的创造中幸福的象征。他的手上沾上了沙砾,脏了。
他头脑中一片黑暗。头脑中凝聚着的意识粉碎了,远逝了,他的生命在黑暗中溶化了。他心中很是焦虑。他需要她回来。他象婴儿那样轻微、有规律地喘息着,象婴孩一样天真无邪,毫无责任感。
她正往回走。他看到她正沿着高高的篱笆漫不经心地朝他缓缓走来。他没动,没有再看她。他似乎静静地睡了,蛰伏着,彻底放松了。
她走过来垂着头站在他面前。
“看我给你采来了什么花儿?”说着她把一束紫红色的石楠花捧到他面前。他看到了那一簇喇叭样的各色花儿和细小如树枝般的花梗,还看到捧着花的那手,她手上的皮肤那么细腻、那么敏感。
“很美!”他抬头冲她笑着接过了花儿。一切又变得很简单了,复杂性全消逝了。但是他真想大叫,但没叫出声,他太累,感情负担太重了。
随后他心中升起一股对她的温柔激情。他站起来,凝视着她的脸。这是一张全新的脸,那么骄纤,脸上露出惊奇与恐惧的表情。他搂住她,她把脸伏在他的肩上。
安宁,那样宁馨,他就站在路上默默地拥抱着她。最终是静谧。原先那可恶的紧张世界终于逝去了。
她抬头看着他,眼中那奇妙的黄色光芒变得柔和、温顺起来,他们二人的心情都平静下来了。他吻了她,温柔地,一遍又一遍。她的目光充满了笑意。
“我骂你了吗?”她问。
他也笑了,握住了她柔软的手。
“千万别在意,”她说,“这也是为了咱们好。”他温柔地吻了她许多次。
“难道不是吗?”她说。
“当然,”他说,“等着吧,我会报复的。”
她突然一声大笑,猛地拥抱住他。
“你是我的,我的爱,不是吗?”她叫着搂紧了他。
“是的。”他温柔地说。
他的话那么肯定,语气那么温柔,令她无法动弹,似乎屈从于一种命运。是的,她默许了,可他却没有得到她的许可就做了一切。他默默地一遍又一遍地吻她,温柔、幸福地吻她,他的吻几乎令她的心停止了跳动。
“我的爱!”她叫着,抬起脸惊喜地看着 
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。
゛臉紅紅....

ZxID:704295


等级: 内阁元老
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
举报 只看该作者 24楼  发表于: 2013-10-29 0
。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 24 Death and Love


THOMAS CRICH died slowly, terribly slowly. It seemed impossible to everybody that the thread of life could be drawn out so thin, and yet not break. The sick man lay unutterably weak and spent, kept alive by morphia and by drinks, which he sipped slowly. He was only half conscious -- a thin strand of consciousness linking the darkness of death with the light of day. Yet his will was unbroken, he was integral, complete. Only he must have perfect stillness about him.
Any presence but that of the nurses was a strain and an effort to him now. Every morning Gerald went into the room, hoping to find his father passed away at last. Yet always he saw the same transparent face, the same dread dark hair on the waxen forehead, and the awful, inchoate dark eyes, which seemed to be decomposing into formless darkness, having only a tiny grain of vision within them.
And always, as the dark, inchoate eyes turned to him, there passed through Gerald's bowels a burning stroke of revolt, that seemed to resound through his whole being, threatening to break his mind with its clangour, and making him mad.
Every morning, the son stood there, erect and taut with life, gleaming in his blondness. The gleaming blondness of his strange, imminent being put the father into a fever of fretful irritation. He could not bear to meet the uncanny, downward look of Gerald's blue eyes. But it was only for a moment. Each on the brink of departure, the father and son looked at each other, then parted.
For a long time Gerald preserved a perfect sang froid, he remained quite collected. But at last, fear undermined him. He was afraid of some horrible collapse in himself. He had to stay and see this thing through. Some perverse will made him watch his father drawn over the borders of life. And yet, now, every day, the great red-hot stroke of horrified fear through the bowels of the son struck a further inflammation. Gerald went about all day with a tendency to cringe, as if there were the point of a sword of Damocles pricking the nape of his neck.
There was no escape -- he was bound up with his father, he had to see him through. And the father's will never relaxed or yielded to death. It would have to snap when death at last snapped it, -- if it did not persist after a physical death. In the same way, the will of the son never yielded. He stood firm and immune, he was outside this death and this dying.
It was a trial by ordeal. Could he stand and see his father slowly dissolve and disappear in death, without once yielding his will, without once relenting before the omnipotence of death. Like a Red Indian undergoing torture, Gerald would experience the whole process of slow death without wincing or flinching. He even triumphed in it. He somehow wanted this death, even forced it. It was as if he himself were dealing the death, even when he most recoiled in horror. Still, he would deal it, he would triumph through death.
But in the stress of this ordeal, Gerald too lost his hold on the outer, daily life. That which was much to him, came to mean nothing. Work, pleasure -- it was all left behind. He went on more or less mechanically with his business, but this activity was all extraneous. The real activity was this ghastly wrestling for death in his own soul. And his own will should triumph. Come what might, he would not bow down or submit or acknowledge a master. He had no master in death.
But as the fight went on, and all that he had been and was continued to be destroyed, so that life was a hollow shell all round him, roaring and clattering like the sound of the sea, a noise in which he participated externally, and inside this hollow shell was all the darkness and fearful space of death, he knew he would have to find reinforcements, otherwise he would collapse inwards upon the great dark void which circled at the centre of his soul. His will held his outer life, his outer mind, his outer being unbroken and unchanged. But the pressure was too great. He would have to find something to make good the equilibrium. Something must come with him into the hollow void of death in his soul, fill it up, and so equalise the pressure within to the pressure without. For day by day he felt more and more like a bubble filled with darkness, round which whirled the iridescence of his consciousness, and upon which the pressure of the outer world, the outer life, roared vastly.
In this extremity his instinct led him to Gudrun. He threw away everything now -- he only wanted the relation established with her. He would follow her to the studio, to be near her, to talk to her. He would stand about the room, aimlessly picking up the implements, the lumps of clay, the little figures she had cast -- they were whimsical and grotesque -- looking at them without perceiving them. And she felt him following her, dogging her heels like a doom. She held away from him, and yet she knew he drew always a little nearer, a little nearer.
`I say,' he said to her one evening, in an odd, unthinking, uncertain way, `won't you stay to dinner tonight? I wish you would.'
She started slightly. He spoke to her like a man making a request of another man.
`They'll be expecting me at home,' she said.
`Oh, they won't mind, will they?' he said. `I should be awfully glad if you'd stay.'
Her long silence gave consent at last.
`I'll tell Thomas, shall I?' he said.
`I must go almost immediately after dinner,' she said.
It was a dark, cold evening. There was no fire in the drawing-room, they sat in the library. He was mostly silent, absent, and Winifred talked little. But when Gerald did rouse himself, he smiled and was pleasant and ordinary with her. Then there came over him again the long blanks, of which he was not aware.
She was very much attracted by him. He looked so preoccupied, and his strange, blank silences, which she could not read, moved her and made her wonder over him, made her feel reverential towards him.
But he was very kind. He gave her the best things at the table, he had a bottle of slightly sweet, delicious golden wine brought out for dinner, knowing she would prefer it to the burgundy. She felt herself esteemed, needed almost.
As they took coffee in the library, there was a soft, very soft knocking at the door. He started, and called `Come in.' The timbre of his voice, like something vibrating at high pitch, unnerved Gudrun. A nurse in white entered, half hovering in the doorway like a shadow. She was very goodlooking, but strangely enough, shy and self-mistrusting.
`The doctor would like to speak to you, Mr Crich,' she said, in her low, discreet voice.
`The doctor!' he said, starting up. `Where is he?'
`He is in the dining-room.'
`Tell him I'm coming.'
He drank up his coffee, and followed the nurse, who had dissolved like a shadow.
`Which nurse was that?' asked Gudrun.
`Miss Inglis -- I like her best,' replied Winifred.
After a while Gerald came back, looking absorbed by his own thoughts, and having some of that tension and abstraction which is seen in a slightly drunken man. He did not say what the doctor had wanted him for, but stood before the fire, with his hands behind his back, and his face open and as if rapt. Not that he was really thinking -- he was only arrested in pure suspense inside himself, and thoughts wafted through his mind without order.
`I must go now and see Mama,' said Winifred, `and see Dadda before he goes to sleep.'
She bade them both good-night.
Gudrun also rose to take her leave.
`You needn't go yet, need you?' said Gerald, glancing quickly at the clock.' It is early yet. I'll walk down with you when you go. Sit down, don't hurry away.'
Gudrun sat down, as if, absent as he was, his will had power over her. She felt almost mesmerised. He was strange to her, something unknown. What was he thinking, what was he feeling, as he stood there so rapt, saying nothing? He kept her -- she could feel that. He would not let her go. She watched him in humble submissiveness.
`Had the doctor anything new to tell you?' she asked, softly, at length, with that gentle, timid sympathy which touched a keen fibre in his heart. He lifted his eyebrows with a negligent, indifferent expression.
`No -- nothing new,' he replied, as if the question were quite casual, trivial. `He says the pulse is very weak indeed, very intermittent -- but that doesn't necessarily mean much, you know.'
He looked down at her. Her eyes were dark and soft and unfolded, with a stricken look that roused him.
`No,' she murmured at length. `I don't understand anything about these things.'
`Just as well not,' he said. `I say, won't you have a cigarette? -- do!' He quickly fetched the box, and held her a light. Then he stood before her on the hearth again.
`No,' he said, `we've never had much illness in the house, either -- not till father.' He seemed to meditate a while. Then looking down at her, with strangely communicative blue eyes, that filled her with dread, he continued: `It's something you don't reckon with, you know, till it is there. And then you realise that it was there all the time -- it was always there -- you understand what I mean? -- the possibility of this incurable illness, this slow death.'
He moved his feet uneasily on the marble hearth, and put his cigarette to his mouth, looking up at the ceiling.
`I know,' murmured Gudrun: `it is dreadful.'
He smoked without knowing. Then he took the cigarette from his lips, bared his teeth, and putting the tip of his tongue between his teeth spat off a grain of tobacco, turning slightly aside, like a man who is alone, or who is lost in thought.
`I don't know what the effect actually is, on one,' he said, and again he looked down at her. Her eyes were dark and stricken with knowledge, looking into his. He saw her submerged, and he turned aside his face. `But I absolutely am not the same. There's nothing left, if you understand what I mean. You seem to be clutching at the void -- and at the same time you are void yourself. And so you don't know what to do.'

任何存在,但护士的应变和努力,他现在。每天早晨,杰拉德走进房间,希望能找到最后,他的父亲去世。然而,他总是看到同样的透明的脸,同样的恐惧黑暗蜡黄的额头上的头发,和可怕的,早期的黑眼睛,这似乎被分解成无形的黑暗,只有一个微小的颗粒内他们的视野。
总是黑暗,早期的目光都转向了他,有杰拉德的肠子通过燃烧行程的反抗,他整个人似乎响彻,扬言要打破它的铿锵声,他的头脑,使他疯狂。
每天早晨,儿子站在那里,直立和绷紧生活的,他又将金发闪闪发光。闪闪发光的又将金发的父亲把他的怪,即将被成发热烦躁刺激。他不忍满足鬼斧神工,向下看看杰拉德的蓝眼睛。但它只是一个瞬间。每一个出发的边缘,父亲和儿子互相看了一眼,然后分手。
很长一段时间,杰拉德保存一个完美的生冷静,他仍然相当收集。但最后,他怕破坏。他怕自己一些可怕的崩溃。他不得不留下来,看看这个事情的经过。有些乖张将让他看父亲画了生活的边界。然而,现在的每一天,通过儿子的肠子惊骇恐惧的巨大红色热中风发生进一步的炎症。杰拉尔德整天去与畏缩的倾向,如果有一个达摩克利斯之剑刺他的脖子颈背点。
无路可逃 - 他注定与他的父亲,他不得不通过看他。和父亲绝不会放松,或屈服于死亡。这将有抢购最后死亡时抢购吧 - 如果它没有坚持一个肉体死亡之后。以同样的方式,从来不会屈服的意志的儿子。他站在那里,他坚定和免疫外面死亡和垂死。
这是一个试验的考验。他能站住,看他的父亲慢慢地溶解和消失死亡,一次都没有得到他的意志,一次都没有松口之前无所不能的死亡。像一个红色的印度遭受酷刑,杰拉德将经历缓慢死亡的全过程,而不畏缩或退缩。他甚至战胜它。不知何故,他希望这一次的死亡,甚至迫使它。这是因为如果他自己造成死亡,甚至当他在恐惧中畏缩。不过,他会处理,他将胜利通过死亡。
但在这个磨难的压力,杰拉德也失去了他保持的外,日常生活。,这是多给他,又意味着什么。工作,快乐 - 这是所有被甩在后面。他又或多或少机械与他的生意,但这次活动是所有多余的。真正的活动是这个阴森摔跤死在他自己的灵魂。他自己的意志的胜利。来什么可能,他不会低头或提交或承认一个主。他有没有主人死亡。
但是,去战斗,和所有他一直并继续被破坏,这样的人生是一个空壳他周围,轰轰作响像大海的声音,他参加外部噪声,空壳这里面是所有的黑暗和可怕的死亡空间,他知道他必须找到援军,否则他会向内塌陷后,伟大的黑暗虚空盘旋在他的灵魂的中心。他将举行他的外部生活,他在外的头脑,他的外不间断不变。但压力太大。他会找到的东西,取得良好的平衡。我们必须来与他在他的灵魂进入中空无效死亡,填补它,所以内的压力相等的压力没有。一天一天,他感觉越来越像一个泡沫充满了黑暗,圆他的意识飞舞的彩虹色,并赖以外部世界的压力,外的生活,极大地吼道。
在这种下肢他的本能促使他戈珍。他扔掉现在的一切 - 他只是想与她建立的关系。他将跟随她的工作室,要接近她,向她倾诉。他会站在房间里,漫无目的的拿起工具,粘土块,她所投的小数字 - 他们是异想​​天开和怪诞的 - 看着他们,他们没有察觉。她觉得他跟随她,她的高跟鞋像厄运缠身。她拿着离他而去,但她知道他提请总是有点近,有点接近。
我说,'他说,以她的一个晚上,一个奇怪的,没头没脑的,不确定的方式,将你不留下来吃晚饭,今晚?我想你会的。“
她开始咯。他对她说话,喜欢一个人,另一名男子的请求。
他们会期待我在家里,“她说。
“哦,他们不会介意,将他们?” 他说。`我应该非常高兴,如果你愿意留下来。“
长时间的沉默给了她最后同意。
`我会告诉托马斯,我?“ 他说。
“晚饭后,我必须去,几乎立即的,”她说。
这是一个黑暗,寒冷的夜晚。有没有火在客厅里,他们坐在图书馆。他是沉默的,缺席,,和雪梅很少说话。但是,当杰拉德做了起来,他笑着跟她是愉快的和普通。再就是他过来再长的空白,其中,他不知道。
她非常吸引他。他看上去是那么心事重重,和他的奇怪的,空白的沉默,她无法理解,打动了她,她不知道在他身上,让她感到他虔诚的态度。
但他很亲切。他给了她最好的东西在餐桌上,他略带甜味,美味带来的黄金酒出去吃晚饭,有一瓶知道她宁愿勃艮第的。她觉得自己尊敬,几乎需要。
他们在图书馆,咖啡有一个软,很软的敲门声。他开始了,叫'请进' 他的声音的音色,高音振动像戈珍不安。输入的一名护士在白色,一半像影子一样在门口徘徊。她是非常好看的,但奇怪的是,害羞和自我mistrusting的。
医生想对你说话,克里奇先生,“她说,在她的低,谨慎的声音。
“大夫!” 他说,开始。`他在哪里?“
`他是在饭厅。
`告诉他我来了。“
他喝他的咖啡,跟着护士,像影子一样溶解。
`护士是什么?“ 戈珍问。
英格利斯小姐 - 我喜欢她最好的,“雪梅答道。
过了一会儿,杰拉德回来了,寻找,吸收由他自己的想法,有一些稍微醉酒男子看到这种紧张局势和抽象。他没有说什么医生要他,但站在火前,他的双手在背后,并打开他的脸,仿佛全神贯注。并不是说他真正的想法 - 他只是自己内心的悬念纯被捕,并通过他的脑海中的思绪飘荡无秩序。
`我现在必须走了,看到妈妈,说:“雪梅,”他去睡觉之前看Dadda的。“
她吩咐他们都晚安。
戈珍也上涨到她离开。
你不用去,但需要你吗?“ 杰拉尔德说,快速瞥了一眼时钟。这是早着呢。我会走你的,当你去。坐下,不要匆匆离去。“
戈珍坐了下来,他的意志,如果他缺席,她的较力。她觉得几乎如醉如痴。他怪她,未知的东西。他在想什么,有什么是他的感觉,因为他站在那里,一言不发如此全神贯注?他保留了她 - 她能感觉到这一点。他不会让她去。她看着他谦卑顺从。
`有什么新的东西要告诉你的医生?“ 她问,轻声道,在长度,触动了敏锐的在他的心脏纤维与温柔,胆小的同情。一个疏忽,冷漠的表情,他抬起眉毛。
“ - 没有什么新的,”他回答说,如果问题是相当休闲,琐碎。`他说脉冲确实是非常弱的,非常间歇性的 - 但是,这并不一定意味着多,你知道。“
他低头看着她。她的眼睛是黑暗和软展开,激起了他的一个失措的样子。
不,“她低声说在长度。`我什​​么都不懂这些东西。“
`一样好,“他说。“”我说,你会不会有香烟吗? - 做的!“ 他迅速地取出盒子,握着她的一盏灯。然后,他站在她的面前,再次在炉边。
不,“他说,”我们从来没有在房子里的很多疾病, - 不,直到父亲。“ 他似乎在打坐一会儿。然后低头看着她,用奇怪的交际蓝色的眼睛,使她充满了恐惧,他继续说:'你不认真对待,你知道,直到它有它的东西。然后你意识到这是那里所有的时间 - 它总是在那里 - 你明白我的意思吗? - 这种不治之症的可能性,这种缓慢的死亡。“
他不安地移动他的脚的大理石壁炉上,并把他嘴里的香烟,仰望天花板。
我知道,“戈珍喃喃地说:`这是可怕的。”
他不知道吸烟。然后,他把香烟从他的嘴唇,露出牙齿,并把他的牙齿之间,他的舌头尖吐烟草一粒,稍微转向一旁,像一个人是孤独的,或谁是陷入了沉思。
`我不知道什么样的效果,在一个实际上是,“他说,他再次低头看着她。她的眼睛是黑暗和贫困的知识,看着他。他看见她淹没了,他转过身去他的脸。“但是我绝对是不一样的。一无所有,如果你明白我的意思。你似乎要攥在虚空 - 在同一时间,你丧失自己。所以你不知道该怎么做。“
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。
゛臉紅紅....

ZxID:704295


等级: 内阁元老
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
举报 只看该作者 25楼  发表于: 2013-10-29 0
。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 25 Marriage or Not


THE BRANGWEN family was going to move from Beldover. It was necessary now for the father to be in town.
Birkin had taken out a marriage licence, yet Ursula deferred from day to day. She would not fix any definite time -- she still wavered. Her month's notice to leave the Grammar School was in its third week. Christmas was not far off.
Gerald waited for the Ursula-Birkin marriage. It was something crucial to him.
`Shall we make it a double-barrelled affair?' he said to Birkin one day.
`Who for the second shot?' asked Birkin.
`Gudrun and me,' said Gerald, the venturesome twinkle in his eyes.
Birkin looked at him steadily, as if somewhat taken aback.
`Serious -- or joking?' he asked.
`Oh, serious. Shall I? Shall Gudrun and I rush in along with you?'
`Do by all means,' said Birkin. `I didn't know you'd got that length.'
`What length?' said Gerald, looking at the other man, and laughing.
`Oh yes, we've gone all the lengths.'
`There remains to put it on a broad social basis, and to achieve a high moral purpose,' said Birkin.
`Something like that: the length and breadth and height of it,' replied Gerald, smiling.
`Oh well,' said Birkin,' it's a very admirable step to take, I should say.'
Gerald looked at him closely.
`Why aren't you enthusiastic?' he asked. `I thought you were such dead nuts on marriage.'
Birkin lifted his shoulders.
`One might as well be dead nuts on noses. There are all sorts of noses, snub and otherwise--'
Gerald laughed.
`And all sorts of marriage, also snub and otherwise?' he said.
`That's it.'
`And you think if I marry, it will be snub?' asked Gerald quizzically, his head a little on one side.
Birkin laughed quickly.
`How do I know what it will be!' he said. `Don't lambaste me with my own parallels--'
Gerald pondered a while.
`But I should like to know your opinion, exactly,' he said.
`On your marriage? -- or marrying? Why should you want my opinion? I've got no opinions. I'm not interested in legal marriage, one way or another. It's a mere question of convenience.'
Still Gerald watched him closely.
`More than that, I think,' he said seriously. `However you may be bored by the ethics of marriage, yet really to marry, in one's own personal case, is something critical, final--'
`You mean there is something final in going to the registrar with a woman?'
`If you're coming back with her, I do,' said Gerald. `It is in some way irrevocable.'
`Yes, I agree,' said Birkin.
`No matter how one regards legal marriage, yet to enter into the married state, in one's own personal instance, is final--'
`I believe it is,' said Birkin, `somewhere.'
`The question remains then, should one do it,' said Gerald.
Birkin watched him narrowly, with amused eyes.
`You are like Lord Bacon, Gerald,' he said. `You argue it like a lawyer - or like Hamlet's to-be-or-not-to-be. If I were you I would not marry: but ask Gudrun, not me. You're not marrying me, are you?'
Gerald did not heed the latter part of this speech.
`Yes,' he said, `one must consider it coldly. It is something critical. One comes to the point where one must take a step in one direction or another. And marriage is one direction--'
`And what is the other?' asked Birkin quickly.
Gerald looked up at him with hot, strangely-conscious eyes, that the other man could not understand.
`I can't say,' he replied. `If I knew that --' He moved uneasily on his feet, and did not finish.
`You mean if you knew the alternative?' asked Birkin. `And since you don't know it, marriage is a pis aller.'
Gerald looked up at Birkin with the same hot, constrained eyes.
`One does have the feeling that marriage is a pis aller,' he admitted.
`Then don't do it,' said Birkin. `I tell you,' he went on, `the same as I've said before, marriage in the old sense seems to me repulsive. Egoisme a deux is nothing to it. It's a sort of tacit hunting in couples: the world all in couples, each couple in its own little house, watching its own little interests, and stewing in its own little privacy -- it's the most repulsive thing on earth.'
`I quite agree,' said Gerald. `There's something inferior about it. But as I say, what's the alternative.'
`One should avoid this home instinct. It's not an instinct, it's a habit of cowardliness. One should never have a home.'
`I agree really,' said Gerald. `But there's no alternative.'
`We've got to find one. I do believe in a permanent union between a man and a woman. Chopping about is merely an exhaustive process. But a permanent relation between a man and a woman isn't the last word -- it certainly isn't.'
`Quite,' said Gerald.
`In fact,' said Birkin, `because the relation between man and woman is made the supreme and exclusive relationship, that's where all the tightness and meanness and insufficiency comes in.'
`Yes, I believe you,' said Gerald.
`You've got to take down the love-and-marriage ideal from its pedestal. We want something broader. I believe in the additional perfect relationship between man and man -- additional to marriage.'
`I can never see how they can be the same,' said Gerald.
`Not the same -- but equally important, equally creative, equally sacred, if you like.'
`I know,' said Gerald, `you believe something like that. Only I can't feel it, you see.' He put his hand on Birkin's arm, with a sort of deprecating affection. And he smiled as if triumphantly.
He was ready to be doomed. Marriage was like a doom to him. He was willing to condemn himself in marriage, to become like a convict condemned to the mines of the underworld, living no life in the sun, but having a dreadful subterranean activity. He was willing to accept this. And marriage was the seal of his condemnation. He was willing to be sealed thus in the underworld, like a soul damned but living forever in damnation. But he would not make any pure relationship with any other soul. He could not. Marriage was not the committing of himself into a relationship with Gudrun. It was a committing of himself in acceptance of the established world, he would accept the established order, in which he did not livingly believe, and then he would retreat to the underworld for his life. This he would do.
The other way was to accept Rupert's offer of alliance, to enter into the bond of pure trust and love with the other man, and then subsequently with the woman. If he pledged himself with the man he would later be able to pledge himself with the woman: not merely in legal marriage, but in absolute, mystic marriage.
Yet he could not accept the offer. There was a numbness upon him, a numbness either of unborn, absent volition, or of atrophy. Perhaps it was the absence of volition. For he was strangely elated at Rupert's offer. Yet he was still more glad to reject it, not to be committed.
 
布朗温家要从贝多佛搬走了。父亲此时需要住在城里去。
伯金领了结婚证,可厄秀拉却一拖再拖不结婚。她不要定下固定日子——她还在犹豫。她原申请一个月内离开学校,现在已是第三周了。圣诞节快到了。
杰拉德在等厄秀拉和伯金结婚的日子。对他来说这至关重要。
“咱们是否两对儿一起办喜事?”他问伯金。
“谁是第二对儿?”伯金问。
“戈珍和我呀。”杰拉德眼中闪着冒险的光说。
伯金审视着他,有点吃惊。
“真话,还是开玩笑?”他问。
“哦,当然是真话。行吗?戈珍和我加入你们的行列?”
“行,当然行,”伯金说,“我还不知道你们已经这样了。”
“什么样?”杰拉德看着伯金笑问。
“哦,经历过了一切。”他又说。
“还应该纳入更广阔的社会背景中,达到更高的精神境界”伯金说。
“有那么点意思:无论是广度、深度还是高度。”杰拉德笑道。
“是啊,这一步是很令人羡慕的,可以这么说。”
杰拉德凝视着他。
“你为什么没热情?”他问,“我以为你在婚姻问题上是个怪人。”
伯金耸耸肩道:
“如同人的鼻子,难免有怪的一样。什么样的鼻子都有,扁鼻子或别的样的——”
杰拉德笑了。
“什么样的婚姻都有,扁的或别样的吗?”
“对的。”
“那么,你以为我的婚姻是什么样的?会是冷漠的吗?”杰拉德的头扭向一边问道。
伯金短促地笑了一声。
“我怎么能知道?!”他说,“别用我自己的例子来指责我。”
杰拉德思忖了片刻说:
“可我想知道你的看法,真的。”
“对于你的婚姻,还是对婚姻本身?你为什么要问我的看法?我没什么看法。对于这样那样的法律婚姻我不感兴趣。这只是一个合适不合适的问题。”
杰拉德仍旧盯着他。
“更有甚者,”他严肃地说,“也许你让婚姻道德弄烦了,可是,结婚对一个人来说确实是至关紧要,是最终——”
“你认为和一个女人去登记就意味着某种终结吗?”
“如果登完记同她一起回来的话,就是这样,”杰拉德说,“从某种意义上说这是难以改变的了。”
“对,我同意。”伯金说。
“不管你怎么看待法律婚姻,只要你进入了婚姻状态,对你个人来说这就是结束——”
“我相信在某种意义上这是对的。”伯金说。
“可问题还没解决,应该不应该结婚呢?”杰拉德说。
伯金感到有趣,眯起眼睛看着他。
“杰拉德,你象培根大人,”他说,“你象个律师在争论问题——或者象哈姆雷特一样在谈‘生还是死’。如果我是你,我就不结婚。你应该问戈珍,而不是问我,你又不是跟我结婚,对吗?”
对后半句话杰拉德压根儿没去听。
“是啊,”他说,“是要冷静地考虑这个问题。这是至关紧要的事儿。现在到了采取措施选择哪一个方向的时候了。结婚是一个方向——”
“可出路在哪儿?”伯金紧跟着问。
杰拉德的眼睛热辣辣地看看伯金,心中十分奇怪:他怎么会理解不了呢?
“我说不清,”他回答,“我知道——”他很不自在地动着双脚,话没说完。
“你的意思是你知道出路?”伯金问,“既然你不知道,那么,婚姻就是最坏的事。”
杰拉德仍旧紧张地看着他。
“是有这种感觉。”他承认道。
“那就别结婚,”伯金说,“听我说,”他继续说,“我曾说过,婚姻似乎让人反感。两性间的私情并不等于是婚姻,它是恋人们心照不宣的追求。这个世界都是成双成对的。每对男女都关在自己的小屋子中,关心自己的小小利益,忙自己的私事儿——这是世上顶顶讨厌的事。”
“我很同意你的说法。”杰拉德说,“这里面总有点低级趣味。可是,我又要说了,用什么来代替它呢?”
“人应该放弃这种家庭本能。这倒不是本能,而是一种懦夫的习惯。人永远不要有家。”
“我确实同意,”杰拉德说,“可你别无选择。”
“我们应该找到一条出路,我的确相信女人和男人之间有一种永恒的联盟。改变方向是太让人疲倦了。可男女之间永恒的联盟并不是终极,当然不是的。”
“很对。”杰拉德说。
“事实上,”伯金说,“因为男女之间的关系让人弄得至高无上,排除了一切,所以这种关系显得紧密、小气、不足。”
“对,你说得对。”杰拉德说。
“应该把恋爱——结婚的理想从受尊敬的地位上拉下来。我们需要更广阔的东西。我相信男人与男人间完美的关系可以成为婚姻的补充。”
“我看不出两者之间的共同之处。”杰拉德说。
“不是一样的,但同样重要,同样是创造性的,同样神圣。”
“懂了,”杰拉德说,“你相信这类说教,我可以感觉出来。”
他深表赞同地把手搭在伯金肩上,有点得胜似地笑了。
他准备接受命运的宣判。结婚对他来说是一种死亡。他自愿谴责自己,愿意象囚犯一样被打入地狱,永不见天日,只过一种可怕的地下生活。他自愿接受这样的命运。结婚就是他的判决书上的图章。他愿意就此被封在地下,象一个精灵,尽管受着谴责却要活下去。当然他不会同任何别的灵魂发生关系。他不能。结婚并不意味着他同戈珍建立了责任关系。结婚使得他接受了现存的世界,他要接受已建立的秩序,尽管他并不那么相信它,随后他会退入阴间去生活。他会这样的。
另一条路是接受卢伯特的建议,与另一个男人建立起同盟,纯粹相互信任,相爱,随后再与女人这样。如果他能和一个男人宣誓为盟他也可以同女人这样;不是在法律婚姻中,而是在绝对神秘的结合中。
可是他不能接受这个建议。他浑身麻木,一种未出生的,缺乏意志或萎缩的麻木。或许是缺乏意志的缘故吧。他对卢伯特的建议感到异常激动,可他仍然要反对它,不愿对此奉献自己。
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。
゛臉紅紅....

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等级: 内阁元老
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
举报 只看该作者 26楼  发表于: 2013-10-29 0
。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 26 A Chair


THERE WAS a jumble market every Monday afternoon in the old market-place in town. Ursula and Birkin strayed down there one afternoon. They had been talking of furniture, and they wanted to see if there was any fragment they would like to buy, amid the heaps of rubbish collected on the cobble-stones.
The old market-square was not very large, a mere bare patch of granite setts, usually with a few fruit-stalls under a wall. It was in a poor quarter of the town. Meagre houses stood down one side, there was a hosiery factory, a great blank with myriad oblong windows, at the end, a street of little shops with flagstone pavement down the other side, and, for a crowning monument, the public baths, of new red brick, with a clocktower. The people who moved about seemed stumpy and sordid, the air seemed to smell rather dirty, there was a sense of many mean streets ramifying off into warrens of meanness. Now and again a great chocolateand-yellow tramcar ground round a difficult bend under the hosiery factory.
Ursula was superficially thrilled when she found herself out among the common people, in the jumbled place piled with old bedding, heaps of old iron, shabby crockery in pale lots, muffled lots of unthinkable clothing. She and Birkin went unwillingly down the narrow aisle between the rusty wares. He was looking at the goods, she at the people.
She excitedly watched a young woman, who was going to have a baby, and who was turning over a mattress and making a young man, down-atheel and dejected, feel it also. So secretive and active and anxious the young woman seemed, so reluctant, slinking, the young man. He was going to marry her because she was having a child.
When they had felt the mattress, the young woman asked the old man seated on a stool among his wares, how much it was. He told her, and she turned to the young man. The latter was ashamed, and selfconscious. He turned his face away, though he left his body standing there, and muttered aside. And again the woman anxiously and actively fingered the mattress and added up in her mind and bargained with the old, unclean man. All the while, the young man stood by, shamefaced and down-at-heel, submitting.
`Look,' said Birkin, `there is a pretty chair.'
`Charming!' cried Ursula. `Oh, charming.'
It was an arm-chair of simple wood, probably birch, but of such fine delicacy of grace, standing there on the sordid stones, it almost brought tears to the eyes. It was square in shape, of the purest, slender lines, and four short lines of wood in the back, that reminded Ursula of harpstrings.
`It was once,' said Birkin, `gilded -- and it had a cane seat. Somebody has nailed this wooden seat in. Look, here is a trifle of the red that underlay the gilt. The rest is all black, except where the wood is worn pure and glossy. It is the fine unity of the lines that is so attractive. Look, how they run and meet and counteract. But of course the wooden seat is wrong -- it destroys the perfect lightness and unity in tension the cane gave. I like it though --'
`Ah yes,' said Ursula, `so do I.'
`How much is it?' Birkin asked the man.
`Ten shillings.'
`And you will send it --?'
It was bought.
`So beautiful, so pure!' Birkin said. `It almost breaks my heart.' They walked along between the heaps of rubbish. `My beloved country -- it had something to express even when it made that chair.'
`And hasn't it now?' asked Ursula. She was always angry when he took this tone.
`No, it hasn't. When I see that clear, beautiful chair, and I think of England, even Jane Austen's England -- it had living thoughts to unfold even then, and pure happiness in unfolding them. And now, we can only fish among the rubbish heaps for the remnants of their old expression. There is no production in us now, only sordid and foul mechanicalness.'
`It isn't true,' cried Ursula. `Why must you always praise the past, at the expense of the present? Really, I don't think so much of Jane Austen's England. It was materialistic enough, if you like --'
`It could afford to be materialistic,' said Birkin, `because it had the power to be something other -- which we haven't. We are materialistic because we haven't the power to be anything else -- try as we may, we can't bring off anything but materialism: mechanism, the very soul of materialism.'
Ursula was subdued into angry silence. She did not heed what he said. She was rebelling against something else.
`And I hate your past. I'm sick of it,' she cried. `I believe I even hate that old chair, though it is beautiful. It isn't my sort of beauty. I wish it had been smashed up when its day was over, not left to preach the beloved past to us. I'm sick of the beloved past.'
`Not so sick as I am of the accursed present,' he said.
`Yes, just the same. I hate the present -- but I don't want the past to take its place -- I don't want that old chair.'
He was rather angry for a moment. Then he looked at the sky shining beyond the tower of the public baths, and he seemed to get over it all. He laughed.
`All right,' he said, `then let us not have it. I'm sick of it all, too. At any rate one can't go on living on the old bones of beauty.'
`One can't,' she cried. `I don't want old things.'
`The truth is, we don't want things at all,' he replied. `The thought of a house and furniture of my own is hateful to me.'
This startled her for a moment. Then she replied:
`So it is to me. But one must live somewhere.'
`Not somewhere -- anywhere,' he said. `One should just live anywhere -not have a definite place. I don't want a definite place. As soon as you get a room, and it is complete, you want to run from it. Now my rooms at the Mill are quite complete, I want them at the bottom of the sea. It is a horrible tyranny of a fixed milieu, where each piece of furniture is a commandment-stone.'
She clung to his arm as they walked away from the market.
`But what are we going to do?' she said. `We must live somehow. And I do want some beauty in my surroundings. I want a sort of natural grandeur even, splendour.'
`You'll never get it in houses and furniture -- or even clothes. Houses and furniture and clothes, they are all terms of an old base world, a detestable society of man. And if you have a Tudor house and old, beautiful furniture, it is only the past perpetuated on top of you, horrible. And if you have a perfect modern house done for you by Poiret, it is something else perpetuated on top of you. It is all horrible. It is all possessions, possessions, bullying you and turning you into a generalisation. You have to be like Rodin, Michelangelo, and leave a piece of raw rock unfinished to your figure. You must leave your surroundings sketchy, unfinished, so that you are never contained, never confined, never dominated from the outside.'
She stood in the street contemplating.
`And we are never to have a complete place of our own -- never a home?' she said.
`Pray God, in this world, no,' he answered.
`But there's only this world,' she objected.
He spread out his hands with a gesture of indifference.
`Meanwhile, then, we'll avoid having things of our own,' he said.
`But you've just bought a chair,' she said.
`I can tell the man I don't want it,' he replied.
She pondered again. Then a queer little movement twitched her face.
`No,' she said, `we don't want it. I'm sick of old things.'
`New ones as well,' he said.
They retraced their steps.
There -- in front of some furniture, stood the young couple, the woman who was going to have a baby, and the narrow-faced youth. She was fair, rather short, stout. He was of medium height, attractively built. His dark hair fell sideways over his brow, from under his cap, he stood strangely aloof, like one of the damned.
`Let us give it to them,' whispered Ursula. `Look they are getting a home together.'
`I won't aid abet them in it,' he said petulantly, instantly sympathising with the aloof, furtive youth, against the active, procreant female.
`Oh yes,' cried Ursula. `It's right for them -- there's nothing else for them.'
`Very well,' said Birkin, `you offer it to them. I'll watch.'
Ursula went rather nervously to the young couple, who were discussing an iron washstand -- or rather, the man was glancing furtively and wonderingly, like a prisoner, at the abominable article, whilst the woman was arguing.
`We bought a chair,' said Ursula, `and we don't want it. Would you have it? We should be glad if you would.'
The young couple looked round at her, not believing that she could be addressing them.
`Would you care for it?' repeated Ursula. `It's really very pretty -- but -but --' she smiled rather dazzlingly.
The young couple only stared at her, and looked significantly at each other, to know what to do. And the man curiously obliterated himself, as if he could make himself invisible, as a rat can.
`We wanted to give it to you,' explained Ursula, now overcome with confusion and dread of them. She was attracted by the young man. He was a still, mindless creature, hardly a man at all, a creature that the towns have produced, strangely pure-bred and fine in one sense, furtive, quick, subtle. His lashes were dark and long and fine over his eyes, that had no mind in them, only a dreadful kind of subject, inward consciousness, glazed and dark. His dark brows and all his lines, were finely drawn. He would be a dreadful, but wonderful lover to a woman, so marvellously contributed. His legs would be marvellously subtle and alive, under the shapeless, trousers, he had some of the fineness and stillness and silkiness of a dark-eyed, silent rat.
Ursula had apprehended him with a fine frisson of attraction. The full-built woman was staring offensively. Again Ursula forgot him.
`Won't you have the chair?' she said.
The man looked at her with a sideways look of appreciation, yet faroff, almost insolent. The woman drew herself up. There was a certain costermonger richness about her. She did not know what Ursula was after, she was on her guard, hostile. Birkin approached, smiling wickedly at seeing Ursula so nonplussed and frightened.
`What's the matter?' he said, smiling. His eyelids had dropped slightly, there was about him the same suggestive, mocking secrecy that was in the bearing of the two city creatures. The man jerked his head a little on one side, indicating Ursula, and said, with curious amiable, jeering warmth:
`What she warnt? -- eh?' An odd smile writhed his lips.
Birkin looked at him from under his slack, ironical eyelids.
`To give you a chair -- that -- with the label on it,' he said, pointing.
The man looked at the object indicated. There was a curious hostility in male, outlawed understanding between the two men.
`What's she warnt to give it us for, guvnor,' he replied, in a tone of free intimacy that insulted Ursula.
`Thought you'd like it -- it's a pretty chair. We bought it and don't want it. No need for you to have it, don't be frightened,' said Birkin, with a wry smile.
The man glanced up at him, half inimical, half recognising.
`Why don't you want it for yourselves, if you've just bought it?' asked the woman coolly. `'Taint good enough for you, now you've had a look at it. Frightened it's got something in it, eh?'
She was looking at Ursula, admiringly, but with some resentment.
`I'd never thought of that,' said Birkin. `But no, the wood's too thin everywhere.'
`You see,' said Ursula, her face luminous and pleased. `We are just going to get married, and we thought we'd buy things. Then we decided, just now, that we wouldn't have furniture, we'd go abroad.'
The full-built, slightly blowsy city girl looked at the fine face of the other woman, with appreciation. They appreciated each other. The youth stood aside, his face expressionless and timeless, the thin line of the black moustache drawn strangely suggestive over his rather wide, closed mouth. He was impassive, abstract, like some dark suggestive presence, a gutter-presence.
`It's all right to be some folks,' said the city girl, turning to her own young man. He did not look at her, but he smiled with the lower part of his face, putting his head aside in an odd gesture of assent. His eyes were unchanging, glazed with darkness.
`Cawsts something to change your mind,' he said, in an incredibly low accent.
`Only ten shillings this time,' said Birkin.
The man looked up at him with a grimace of a smile, furtive, unsure.
`Cheap at 'arf a quid, guvnor,' he said. `Not like getting divawced.'
`We're not married yet,' said Birkin.
`No, no more aren't we,' said the young woman loudly. `But we shall be, a Saturday.'
Again she looked at the young man with a determined, protective look, at once overbearing and very gentle. He grinned sicklily, turning away his head. She had got his manhood, but Lord, what did he care! He had a strange furtive pride and slinking singleness.
`Good luck to you,' said Birkin.
`Same to you,' said the young woman. Then, rather tentatively: `When's yours coming off, then?'
Birkin looked round at Ursula.
`It's for the lady to say,' he replied. `We go to the registrar the moment she's ready.'
Ursula laughed, covered with confusion and bewilderment.
`No 'urry,' said the young man, grinning suggestive.
`Oh, don't break your neck to get there,' said the young woman. `'Slike when you're dead -- you're long time married.'
The young man turned aside as if this hit him.
`The longer the better, let us hope,' said Birkin.
`That's it, guvnor,' said the young man admiringly. `Enjoy it while it larsts -- niver whip a dead donkey.'
`Only when he's shamming dead,' said the young woman, looking at her young man with caressive tenderness of authority.
`Aw, there's a difference,' he said satirically.
`What about the chair?' said Birkin.
`Yes, all right,' said the woman.
They trailed off to the dealer, the handsome but abject young fellow hanging a little aside.
`That's it,' said Birkin. `Will you take it with you, or have the address altered.'
`Oh, Fred can carry it. Make him do what he can for the dear old 'ome.'
`Mike use of'im,' said Fred, grimly humorous, as he took the chair from the dealer. His movements were graceful, yet curiously abject, slinking.
`'Ere's mother's cosy chair,' he said. `Warnts a cushion.' And he stood it down on the market stones.
`Don't you think it's pretty?' laughed Ursula.
`Oh, I do,' said the young woman.
`'Ave a sit in it, you'll wish you'd kept it,' said the young man.
Ursula promptly sat down in the middle of the market-place.
`Awfully comfortable,' she said. `But rather hard. You try it.' She invited the young man to a seat. But he turned uncouthly, awkwardly aside, glancing up at her with quick bright eyes, oddly suggestive, like a quick, live rat.
`Don't spoil him,' said the young woman. `He's not used to arm-chairs, 'e isn't.
The young man turned away, and said, with averted grin:
`Only warnts legs on 'is.'
The four parted. The young woman thanked them.
`Thank you for the chair -- it'll last till it gives way.'
`Keep it for an ornyment,' said the young man.
`Good afternoon -- Good afternoon,' said Ursula and Birkin.
`Goo'-luck to you,' said the young man, glancing and avoiding Birkin's eyes, as he turned aside his head.
The two couples went asunder, Ursula clinging to Birkin's arm. When they had gone some distance, she glanced back and saw the young man going beside the full, easy young woman. His trousers sank over his heels, he moved with a sort of slinking evasion, more crushed with odd self-consciousness now he had the slim old arm-chair to carry, his arm over the back, the four fine, square tapering legs swaying perilously near the granite setts of the pavement. And yet he was somewhere indomitable and separate, like a quick, vital rat. He had a queer, subterranean beauty, repulsive too.
`How strange they are!' said Ursula.
`Children of men,' he said. `They remind me of Jesus: "The meek shall inherit the earth."'
`But they aren't the meek,' said Ursula.
`Yes, I don't know why, but they are,' he replied.
They waited for the tramcar. Ursula sat on top and looked out on the town. The dusk was just dimming the hollows of crowded houses.
`And are they going to inherit the earth?' she said.
`Yes -- they.'
`Then what are we going to do?' she asked. `We're not like them -- are we? We're not the meek?'
`No. We've got to live in the chinks they leave us.'
`How horrible!' cried Ursula. `I don't want to live in chinks.'
`Don't worry,' he said. `They are the children of men, they like marketplaces and street-corners best. That leaves plenty of chinks.'
`All the world,' she said.
`Ah no -- but some room.'
The tramcar mounted slowly up the hill, where the ugly winter-grey masses of houses looked like a vision of hell that is cold and angular. They sat and looked. Away in the distance was an angry redness of sunset. It was all cold, somehow small, crowded, and like the end of the world.
`I don't mind it even then,' said Ursula, looking at the repulsiveness of it all. `It doesn't concern me.'
`No more it does,' he replied, holding her hand. `One needn't see. One goes one's way. In my world it is sunny and spacious --'
`It is, my love, isn't it?' she cried, hugging near to him on the top of the tramcar, so that the other passengers stared at them.
`And we will wander about on the face of the earth,' he said, `and we'll look at the world beyond just this bit.'
There was a long silence. Her face was radiant like gold, as she sat thinking.
`I don't want to inherit the earth,' she said. `I don't want to inherit anything.'
He closed his hand over hers.
`Neither do I. I want to be disinherited.'
She clasped his fingers closely.
`We won't care about anything,' she said.
He sat still, and laughed.
`And we'll be married, and have done with them,' she added.
Again he laughed.
`It's one way of getting rid of everything,' she said, `to get married.'
`And one way of accepting the whole world,' he added.
`A whole other world, yes,' she said happily.
`Perhaps there's Gerald -- and Gudrun --' he said.
`If there is there is, you see,' she said. `It's no good our worrying. We can't really alter them, can we?'
`No,' he said. `One has no right to try -- not with the best intentions in the world.'
`Do you try to force them?' she asked.
`Perhaps,' he said. `Why should I want him to be free, if it isn't his business?'
She paused for a time.
`We can't make him happy, anyhow,' she said. `He'd have to be it of himself.'
`I know,' he said. `But we want other people with us, don't we?'
`Why should we?' she asked.
`I don't know,' he said uneasily. `One has a hankering after a sort of further fellowship.'
`But why?' she insisted. `Why should you hanker after other people? Why should you need them?'
This hit him right on the quick. His brows knitted.
`Does it end with just our two selves?' he asked, tense.
`Yes -- what more do you want? If anybody likes to come along, let them. But why must you run after them?'
His face was tense and unsatisfied.
`You see,' he said, `I always imagine our being really happy with some few other people -- a little freedom with people.'
She pondered for a moment.
`Yes, one does want that. But it must happen. You can't do anything for it with your will. You always seem to think you can force the flowers to come out. People must love us because they love us -- you can't make them.'
`I know,' he said. `But must one take no steps at all? Must one just go as if one were alone in the world -- the only creature in the world?'
`You've got me,' she said. `Why should you need others? Why must you force people to agree with you? Why can't you be single by yourself, as you are always saying? You try to bully Gerald -- as you tried to bully Hermione. You must learn to be alone. And it's so horrid of you. You've got me. And yet you want to force other people to love you as well. You do try to bully them to love you. And even then, you don't want their love.'
His face was full of real perplexity.
`Don't I?' he said. `It's the problem I can't solve. I know I want a perfect and complete relationship with you: and we've nearly got it -- we really have. But beyond that. Do I want a real, ultimate relationship with Gerald? Do I want a final, almost extra-human relationship with him -- a relationship in the ultimate of me and him -- or don't I?'
She looked at him for a long time, with strange bright eyes, but she did not answer.
 
城里的旧货义卖摊每周一下午在老市场里营业。一天下午厄秀拉和伯金到那儿去了。他在鹅卵石上成堆的旧货中找着,看看能否买到点家具什么的。
老市场所在的广场并不大,不过是一片铺着花岗岩石的空旷地带,平时只在墙根下有几个水果摊。这儿是城里的贫困区。路边有一排简陋的房物,那儿有一家针织厂,一面墙上开着许多椭圆的窗户;街的另一边开着一溜小商店,便道上铺着扁石;显赫的大房子是公共澡堂,是用新红砖砌成的,顶上还有一座钟塔。在这儿转来转去的人们看上去都那么短粗肮脏,空气也污浊,让人觉得是一条条下流不堪的街道。一辆棕黄色的有轨电车不时在针织厂的拐角处艰难地打转。
厄秀拉感到十分兴奋,她竟置身于这些普通人中间,在这些烂七八糟的东西中徜徉着:怪模怪样的床上用品,一堆堆旧铁器、难看的陶器,还有些蒙着盖着的莫名其妙的衣物。她和伯金不大情愿地在这些破烂儿中穿行。他在看旧货,她则在看人。
她看到一位孕妇时,很是激动。那孕妇正摆弄着一张席子,还要那位跟在她身后灰心丧气的小伙子也来摸摸席子。那年轻女人看上去那么神秘,充满活力,还有些焦急,而那小伙子则显得勉勉强强,鬼鬼祟祟的。他要娶她,因为她怀孕了。
他们摸了摸席子后,那年轻女人问坐在杂货堆中的老人席子卖多少钱。老人告诉她多少钱后,她又回头去问小伙子。那小伙子很害羞,挺不好意思的。他扭过脸,嘟哝了一句什么。那女人急迫地摸摸席子盘算了盘算,然后同那脏稀稀的老人讨起价来。这段时间里,那小伙子一直站在一边,露出一副腼腆相,恭敬地听着。
“看,”伯金说,“那儿有一把不错的椅子。”
“漂亮!”厄秀拉叫着:“好漂亮!”
这是一把扶手椅,纯木的,可能是白桦木,可做工极其精巧、典雅,看到它立在肮脏的石子路上,几乎让人心疼得落泪。椅座是方形的,线条纯朴而纤细,靠背上的四根短木柱让厄秀拉想起竖琴的琴弦。
“这椅子,”伯金说,“曾经镀过金,椅背是藤做的。后来有人钉上了这个木椅背。看,这就是镀金下面的一点红颜色。其余的部分都是黑的,除了黑漆掉了的地方。这些木柱样式很和谐,很迷人。看,它们的走向,它们衔接得多好。当然,木椅背这样安上去不对,它破坏了原先藤椅背的轻巧和整体的浑然。不过,我还是喜欢它。”
“对,”厄秀拉说,“我也喜欢。”
“多少钱?”伯金问卖主。
“十先令。”
“包送——”
他们买下了椅子。
“太漂亮,太纯朴了!”伯金说,“让我太高兴了。”他们边说边从破烂儿中穿过。“我们国家太可爱了,连这把椅子都曾表达点什么。”
“现在它就不表达什么吗?”厄秀拉问。每当伯金用这种口气说话,她就生气。
“不,什么也不表达。当我看到那把明亮、漂亮的椅子时,我就会想起英格兰,甚至是简·奥斯汀时期的英格兰——这椅子甚至表达了活生生的思想,欢快地表达着。可如今,我们只能在成堆的破烂儿中寻觅旧的情绪。我们没有一点创造性,我们身上只有肮脏、卑下的机械性。”
“不对!”厄秀拉叫道,“你为什么总要贬低现在抬高过去?真的,我并不怎么怀念简·奥斯汀时期的英格兰,太物质化了——”
“它能够物质化,”伯金说,“它有足够的力量改变社会。我们也物质化,那是因为我们无力改变社会,不管我们怎样尝试,我们一事无成,只能达到物质主义,它的核心就是机械。”
厄秀拉忍耐着,一言不发。她没听他都说些什么。她在反抗。
“我讨厌你的过去,它让人恶心,”她叫道,“我甚至仇恨那把旧椅子,别看它挺漂亮。它不是我喜欢的那种美。我希望,它那个时代一过就砸烂它,别让它老对我们宣扬那可爱的过去,让我讨厌。”
“我对可咒的现在更讨厌。”他说。
“一样。我也讨厌现在,可我不希望让过去代替现在,我不要那把旧椅子。”
他一时间气坏了。他看看阳光下澡堂上的钟楼,似乎忘掉了一切,又笑了。
“好吧,”他说,“不要就不要吧。我也讨厌它了。不管怎么说,人不能靠欣赏过去的美过日子。”
“是不能,”她叫道,“我不要旧东西。”
“说实在的吧,”他说,“我们什么也不要要。一想到我自己的房子和家具,我就厌烦。”
这话让她吃了一惊,然后她说:
“我也这样。可一个人总得有个地方住。”
“不是某个地方,是任何地方。”他说。“一个人应该在任何地方都可以住,而不是固定在一个地方。我不需要某个固定的地方。一旦你有了一间屋,你就完了,你巴不得离开那儿。我在磨房那儿的房子就挺完美,可我希望它们沉到海底中去。那固定的环境着实可怕,着实霸道,每一件家具都向你发布着命令。”
她依傍着他离开了市场。
“可我们怎么办呢?”她说,“我们总得生活呀。我的确需要我的环境美一些。我甚至需要某种自然奇观。”
“你在房屋、家具甚至衣物中永远得不到这些。房屋、家具和衣物,都是旧社会的产物,令人生厌。如果你有一座都铎王朝式①的房子和漂亮的旧家具,你这不过是让过去永远地存在于你之上。如果你有一座波依莱特②设计的现代房屋,这是另一种永恒压迫着你。这一切都很可怕。这些都是占有,占有,威慑你,让你变得一般化。你应该象罗丹和米开朗基罗那样,一块石头雕不完就完工。你应该让你的环境粗糙、不完美,那样你就不会被它所包容,永不受限制,身处局外,不受它的统治。”
①都铎王朝(1485—1403)。
②波依莱特(1879—1943),法国著名时尚设计家,在1909—1914年间名声显赫。
她站在街上思索着。
“那就是说咱们永远也不会有一个自己的完美住处——
永远没个家?”她说。
“上帝知道,在这个世界上不会有。”他说。
“可只有这一个世界呀。”她反驳说。
他毫不在乎地摊开手。
“同时,我们还要避免有自己的东西。”他说。
“可我们刚买了一把椅子。”她说。
“我可以对那人说我不想要了。”他说。
她思忖着,脸奇怪地一抽动。
“对,我们不要了。我讨厌旧东西。”
“也讨厌新的。”他说。
说完他们又往回走。
又来到家具跟前。那对年轻人依然站在那儿:女的怀孕了,那男人长着长条腿。女人又矮又胖,但挺好看。男人中等个儿,身材很好。他的黑发从帽子下露出来,盖住了眉毛。
他显得很清高,象受了审判的人一样。
“咱们把椅子给他们吧。”厄秀拉喃喃地说,“瞧,他们正要建个家呢。”
“我不支援他们,也不唆使他们买。”他使性子说。他挺同情那个畏畏葸葸的男人,讨厌那个泼辣、生殖力旺盛的女人。
“给他们吧,”厄秀拉叫道,“这椅子对他们很合适——这儿没别的了。”
“那好吧,”伯金说,“你去说,我看着。”
厄秀拉赶紧朝那对年轻人走过去,他们正商量买一个铁盆架子,那男人象个囚犯偷偷摸摸地出神地看着,那女人在讨价还价。
“我们买了一把椅子,”厄秀拉说,“可我们不要了。你们要吗?你们要的话,我将会很高兴。”
那对年轻人回头看着她,不相信她是在跟他们说话。
“你们看看好吗?”厄秀拉说,“确实很好,可是,可是——”她笑了。
那两个人只是看着她,又对视一下,不知怎么办好。那男人奇怪地躲到一边去了,似乎他能够象老鼠一样藏起来。
“我们想把它送给你们,”厄秀拉解释说。她现在有些迷惑不解,也有点怕他们。那小伙子引起了她的注意。他象安祥,而盲目的动物,简直不是个人,他是这种城市的特产,显得单纯、漂亮,又有点鬼鬼祟祟,机灵鬼儿似的。他的眼睫毛又黑又长、倒是还漂亮,但目光茫然,忽闪忽闪地亮着。让人害怕,他的黑眉毛和其它线条勾勒得很好看。对一个女人来说,他会是一个可怕但又十分奇妙的恋人。那合适的裤子肯定包着两条生机勃勃的腿,他象一只黑眼睛的老鼠那样健康、沉静、光滑。
厄秀拉怕他但又迷上了他,浑身不禁震颤起来。那粗壮的女人不怀好意地看着她。于是厄秀拉不再注意他了。
“您要这把椅子吗?”她问。
那男人斜视着她,几乎是无礼地观赏她。那女人紧张起来,样子足象个小贩儿。她不知道厄秀拉要干什么,对她有所戒备。伯金走过来,看到厄秀拉这副窘相和害怕的样子他恶作剧似地笑了。
“怎么了?”他笑问。他的眼皮垂着,那样子象在启发什么,又象在嘲弄人。那男人甩甩头指着厄秀拉用一种奇特和蔼的声调说:
“她要干什么?——啊?”说着他嘴角上露出一丝怪笑。
伯金无精打采地看着他,眼神中不无讽刺。
“送你一把椅子,上面还贴着标签呢。”他指指椅子说。
那男的看看椅子。两个男人之间充满了敌意,难以相互理解。
“她为什么要把椅子给我们?”这随随便便的口气让厄秀拉感到屈辱。
“我以为你会喜欢它,这是一把很漂亮的椅子。我们买下了它,又不想要了。你没有必要非要它不可,别害怕。”伯金疲惫地笑道。
那人瞟了他一眼,虽然并不友好,但还是认可了。
“既然你们买了它,为什么又不要了?”女人冷冷地问,“你们用正好,你最好看一看,别认为这里面有什么玩意儿。”
她很敬重地看着厄秀拉,但目光中不无反感。
“我倒没那么想,”伯金说,“不过,这木头太薄了一点儿。”
“告你说吧,”厄秀拉满脸喜庆地说,“我们马上要结婚,该添置点东西。可我们现在又决定不要家具了,因为我们要出国。”
那粗壮、头发蓬乱的女人羡慕地看着厄秀拉。她们相互欣赏着。那小伙子站在一旁,脸上毫无表情,宽大的嘴巴紧闭着,那一敝小胡子很有性感。他冷淡、茫然,象一个冥冥中的幽灵,一个流浪者样的幽灵。
“这东西还不错,”那女子看看她男人说。男人没说话,只是笑笑,把头偏向一边表示同意。他的目光毫无改变,仍旧黑黑的。
“改变你的主意可不容易。”他声音极低地说。
“只卖十个先令。”伯金说。
那男人看看他,做个鬼脸,畏畏葸葸的,没有把握地说:
“半英镑,是便宜。不是在闹离婚吧?”
“我们还没结婚。”伯金说。
“我们也没有呢,”那年轻女子大声说。“星期六才结呢。”
说话间她又看看那男的,露出保护的神情,既傲慢,又温柔。那男人憨憨地笑了,扭过脸去。她拥有了这个男人,可他又那么满不在乎。他暗自感到骄傲,感到了不起。
“祝你们好运气。”伯金说。
“也祝你们好运气,”那女人说。然后她又试探着问:“你们什么时候结?”
伯金看看厄秀拉说:
“这要由女士来定。只要她准备好了,我们就去登记。”
听到这话厄秀拉迷惑不解地笑了。
“不着急。”那小伙子意味深长地笑道。
“到那儿去就跟要你的命一样,”那女人说。“就跟要死似的,可你都结婚这么久了。”
男人转过身去,似乎这话说中了他。
“越久越好啊。”伯金说。
“是这么回事,”男人羡慕地说,“好好享受,别用鞭子抽一头死驴。”
“可这驴子是在装死,就得抽它。”女人温柔又霸道地看着她的男人。
“哦,这不是一回事。”他调侃道。
“这椅子怎么样?”伯金问。
“嗯,挺好的。”女人说。
说完他们走到卖主跟前,这小伙子挺帅,但有点可怜见的,一直躲在一边。
“就这样,”伯金说,“你们是带走呢还是把标签上的地址改改让他们送去?”
“哦,弗莱德可以搬。为了我们可爱的家,他会这样做的。”
“好好使用我,”弗莱德笑着从卖主手中接过椅子。他的动作很雅观,可有点畏葸。
“这给妈妈坐很舒服,”他说,“就是缺少一个椅垫儿。”
“你不觉得它很漂亮吗?”厄秀拉问。
“当然漂亮。”女人说。
“如果你在里面坐一坐,你就会希望留下它。”小伙子说。
厄秀拉立时坐在椅子中。
“实在舒服,”她说,“可是太硬了点儿,你来试试。”她让小伙子坐进去。可小伙子却露出尴尬相,转过身,明亮的目光奇怪地打量着她,象一只活泼的老鼠。
“别惯坏了他,”女人说,“他坐不惯扶手椅。”
“只想把腿翘起来。”
四个人要分手了。女人向他们表示感谢。
“谢谢你们,这椅子我们会一直用下去。”
“当装饰品。”小伙子说。
“再见——再见了。”厄秀拉和伯金说。
“祝你交好运。”小伙子避开伯金的目光把脸转过去说。
两对儿人分手了。厄秀拉挽着伯金走了一段路又回过头去看那一对儿,只见小伙子正伴着那圆滚滚、很洒脱的女人走着,他的裤角嘟噜着,由于扛着椅子,他走起路来显得很不自然,椅子的四只细腿几乎挨上了花岗石便道。可他象机敏活泼的小老鼠,毫不气馁。他身上有一种潜在的美,当然这样子有点让人生厌。
“他们多么怪啊!”厄秀拉说。
“他们是人的后代,”他说,“他们令我想起了基督的话‘温顺者将继承世界。’”
“可他们并不是这样的人。”厄秀拉说。
他们等电车到了就上去了。厄秀拉坐在上层,望着窗外的城市。黄昏的暮色开始弥漫,笼罩着参差的房屋。
“他们会继承这个世界吗?”她问。
“是的,是他们。”
“那我们怎么办?”她问,“我们跟他们不同,对吗?我们不是软弱的人。”
“不是。我们得在他们的夹缝中生存。”
“太可怕了!”厄秀拉叫道,“我不想在夹缝中生存。”
“别急,”他说,“他们是人的后代,他们最喜欢市场和街角。这样就给我们留下了足够的空间。”
“是整个世界。”她说。
“噢,不,只是一些空间。”
电车爬上了山,这里一片片的房屋灰蒙蒙的,看上去就象地狱中的幻景,冷冰冰、有棱有角。他们坐在车中看着这一切。远方的夕阳象一团红红的怒火。一切都是那么冰冷,渺小,拥挤,象世界末日的图景。
“我才不在乎景致如何呢,”厄秀拉说。她看着这令人不快的景象道:“这跟我没关系。”
“是无所谓,”他拉着她的手说,“你尽可以不去看就是了。
走你的路好了。我自己的世界里正是阳光明媚,无比宽广——”
“对,我的爱人,就是!”她叫着搂紧了他,害得其他乘客直瞪他们二人。
“我们将在地球上恣意游荡,”他说,“我们会看到比这远得多的世界。”
他们沉默了好久。她沉思着的时候,脸象金子一样在闪光。
“我不想继承这个世界,”她说,“我不想继承任何东西。”
他握紧了她的手。
“我也不想,我倒想被剥夺继承权。”
她攥紧了他的手指头。
“咱们什么都不在乎。”她说。
他稳稳地坐着笑了。
“咱们结婚,跟这一切都断绝关系。”她补充说。
他又笑了。
“这是摆脱一切的一种办法,”她说,“那就是结婚。”
“这也是接受整个世界的一种办法。”他补充说。
“另一个世界。”她快活地说。
“或许那儿有杰拉德和戈珍——”他说。
“有就有呗,”她说,“咱们烦恼是没好处的。我们无法改变他们,能吗?”
“不能,”他说,“没有这种权力,即便有最好的动机也不应该这样。”
“那你想强迫他们吗?”她问。
“也许会,”他说,“如果自由不是他的事,我为什么要让他自由?”
她不言语了。
“可我们无法让他幸福,”她说,“他得自己幸福起来才行。”
“我知道,”他说,“可我们希望别人同我们在一起,不是吗?”
“为什么?”她问。
“我不知道,”他不安地说,“一个人总要寻求一种进一步的友情。”
“可是为什么?”她追问。“你干吗要追求别人?你为什么需要他们?”
这话击中了他的要害。他不禁皱起了眉头。
“难道我们两个人就是目的吗?”他紧张地问。
“是的,你还需要别的什么?如果有什么人愿意与我们同行,让他们来好了。可你为什么要追求他们?”
他脸色很紧张,露出不满的表情来。
“你瞧,”他说,“我总在想我们同其它少数几个人在一起会真正幸福的——与他人在一起共享一点自由。”
她思忖着。
“是的,一个人的确需要这个。可它得自然而然发生才行。你不能把自己的意志强加于它。你似乎总想你可以强迫花儿开放。有人爱我们是因为他们爱我们——你不能强使人家爱我们。”
“我知道的,”他说。“可我们就不能采取点步骤了?难道一个人非要孤独地在世上行走——世上唯一的动物?”
“你既然有了我,”她说,“你为什么还需要别人?你为什么要强迫别人同意你的观点?你为什么不能象你说的那样独善其身?你试图欺压杰拉德和赫麦妮。你得学会孤独才行。你这样太可怕了。你现在有了我,可你还要迫使别人也爱你。你的确是迫使人家爱你的。可即便是这样,你需要的仍不是他们的爱。”
他显出一脸的困惑相。
“我是这样的人吗?”他说,“这个问题我无法解决。我知道我需要与你结成完美、完善的关系。我们几乎建立了这样的关系——我们的确建立了这样的关系。可是除此之外,我是否需要与杰拉德有真正完美的关系?是否这是一种最终的、几乎超人的关系——对他对我均是如此?”
她的眼睛闪着奇特的光,看了他好久,但她终于没有回答。
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。
゛臉紅紅....

ZxID:704295


等级: 内阁元老
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
举报 只看该作者 27楼  发表于: 2013-10-29 0
。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 27 Flitting


THAT EVENING Ursula returned home very bright-eyed and wondrous -- which irritated her people. Her father came home at suppertime, tired after the evening class, and the long journey home. Gudrun was reading, the mother sat in silence.
Suddenly Ursula said to the company at large, in a bright voice, `Rupert and I are going to be married tomorrow.'
Her father turned round, stiffly.
`You what?' he said.
`Tomorrow!' echoed Gudrun.
`Indeed!' said the mother.
But Ursula only smiled wonderfully, and did not reply.
`Married tomorrow!' cried her father harshly. `What are you talking about.'
`Yes,' said Ursula. `Why not?' Those two words, from her, always drove him mad. `Everything is all right -- we shall go to the registrar's office--'
There was a second's hush in the room, after Ursula's blithe vagueness.
`Really, Ursula!' said Gudrun.
`Might we ask why there has been all this secrecy?' demanded the mother, rather superbly.
`But there hasn't,' said Ursula. `You knew.'
`Who knew?' now cried the father. `Who knew? What do you mean by your "you knew"?'
He was in one of his stupid rages, she instantly closed against him.
`Of course you knew,' she said coolly. `You knew we were going to get married.'
There was a dangerous pause.
`We knew you were going to get married, did we? Knew! Why, does anybody know anything about you, you shifty bitch!'
`Father!' cried Gudrun, flushing deep in violent remonstrance. Then, in a cold, but gentle voice, as if to remind her sister to be tractable: `But isn't it a fearfully sudden decision, Ursula?' she asked.
`No, not really,' replied Ursula, with the same maddening cheerfulness. `He's been wanting me to agree for weeks -- he's had the licence ready. Only I -- I wasn't ready in myself. Now I am ready -- is there anything to be disagreeable about?'
`Certainly not,' said Gudrun, but in a tone of cold reproof. `You are perfectly free to do as you like.'
`"Ready in yourself" -- yourself, that's all that matters, isn't it! "I wasn't ready in myself,"' he mimicked her phrase offensively. `You and yourself, you're of some importance, aren't you?'
She drew herself up and set back her throat, her eyes shining yellow and dangerous.
`I am to myself,' she said, wounded and mortified. `I know I am not to anybody else. You only wanted to bully me -- you never cared for my happiness.'
He was leaning forward watching her, his face intense like a spark.
`Ursula, what are you saying? Keep your tongue still,' cried her mother.
Ursula swung round, and the lights in her eyes flashed.
`No, I won't,' she cried. `I won't hold my tongue and be bullied. What does it matter which day I get married -- what does it matter! It doesn't affect anybody but myself.'
Her father was tense and gathered together like a cat about to spring.
`Doesn't it?' he cried, coming nearer to her. She shrank away.
`No, how can it?' she replied, shrinking but stubborn.
`It doesn't matter to me then, what you do -- what becomes of you?' he cried, in a strange voice like a cry.
The mother and Gudrun stood back as if hypnotised.
`No,' stammered Ursula. Her father was very near to her. `You only want to--'
She knew it was dangerous, and she stopped. He was gathered together, every muscle ready.
`What?' he challenged.
`Bully me,' she muttered, and even as her lips were moving, his hand had caught her smack at the side of the face and she was sent up against the door.
`Father!' cried Gudrun in a high voice, `it is impossible!'
He stood unmoving. Ursula recovered, her hand was on the door handle. She slowly drew herself up. He seemed doubtful now.
`It's true,' she declared, with brilliant tears in her eyes, her head lifted up in defiance. `What has your love meant, what did it ever mean? -bullying, and denial--it did--'
He was advancing again with strange, tense movements, and clenched fist, and the face of a murderer. But swift as lightning she had flashed out of the door, and they heard her running upstairs.
He stood for a moment looking at the door. Then, like a defeated animal, he turned and went back to his seat by the fire.
Gudrun was very white. Out of the intense silence, the mother's voice was heard saying, cold and angry:
`Well, you shouldn't take so much notice of her.'
Again the silence fell, each followed a separate set of emotions and thoughts.
Suddenly the door opened again: Ursula, dressed in hat and furs, with a small valise in her hand:
`Good-bye!' she said, in her maddening, bright, almost mocking tone. `I'm going.'
And in the next instant the door was closed, they heard the outer door, then her quick steps down the garden path, then the gate banged, and her light footfall was gone. There was a silence like death in the house.
Ursula went straight to the station, hastening heedlessly on winged feet. There was no train, she must walk on to the junction. As she went through the darkness, she began to cry, and she wept bitterly, with a dumb, heart-broken, child's anguish, all the way on the road, and in the train. Time passed unheeded and unknown, she did not know where she was, nor what was taking place. Only she wept from fathomless depths of hopeless, hopeless grief, the terrible grief of a child, that knows no extenuation.
Yet her voice had the same defensive brightness as she spoke to Birkin's landlady at the door.
`Good evening! Is Mr Birkin in? Can I see him?'
`Yes, he's in. He's in his study.'
Ursula slipped past the woman. His door opened. He had heard her voice.
`Hello!' he exclaimed in surprise, seeing her standing there with the valise in her hand, and marks of tears on her face. She was one who wept without showing many traces, like a child.
`Do I look a sight?' she said, shrinking.
`No -- why? Come in,' he took the bag from her hand and they went into the study.
There -- immediately, her lips began to tremble like those of a child that remembers again, and the tears came rushing up.
`What's the matter?' he asked, taking her in his arms. She sobbed violently on his shoulder, whilst he held her still, waiting.
`What's the matter?' he said again, when she was quieter. But she only pressed her face further into his shoulder, in pain, like a child that cannot tell.
`What is it, then?' he asked. Suddenly she broke away, wiped her eyes, regained her composure, and went and sat in a chair.
`Father hit me,' she announced, sitting bunched up, rather like a ruffled bird, her eyes very bright.
`What for?' he said.
She looked away, and would not answer. There was a pitiful redness about her sensitive nostrils, and her quivering lips.
`Why?' he repeated, in his strange, soft, penetrating voice.
She looked round at him, rather defiantly.
`Because I said I was going to be married tomorrow, and he bullied me.'
`Why did he bully you?'
Her mouth dropped again, she remembered the scene once more, the tears came up.
`Because I said he didn't care -- and he doesn't, it's only his domineeringness that's hurt --' she said, her mouth pulled awry by her weeping, all the time she spoke, so that he almost smiled, it seemed so childish. Yet it was not childish, it was a mortal conflict, a deep wound.
`It isn't quite true,' he said. `And even so, you shouldn't say it.'
`It is true -- it is true,' she wept, `and I won't be bullied by his pretending it's love -- when it isn't -- he doesn't care, how can he -- no, he can't--'
He sat in silence. She moved him beyond himself.
`Then you shouldn't rouse him, if he can't,' replied Birkin quietly.
`And I have loved him, I have,' she wept. `I've loved him always, and he's always done this to me, he has --'
`It's been a love of opposition, then,' he said. `Never mind -- it will be all right. It's nothing desperate.'
`Yes,' she wept, `it is, it is.'
`Why?'
`I shall never see him again --'
`Not immediately. Don't cry, you had to break with him, it had to be -don't cry.'
He went over to her and kissed her fine, fragile hair, touching her wet cheeks gently.
`Don't cry,' he repeated, `don't cry any more.'
He held her head close against him, very close and quiet.
At last she was still. Then she looked up, her eyes wide and frightened.
`don't you want me?' she asked.
`Want you?' His darkened, steady eyes puzzled her and did not give her play.
`Do you wish I hadn't come?' she asked, anxious now again for fear she might be out of place.
`No,' he said. `I wish there hadn't been the violence -- so much ugliness -- but perhaps it was inevitable.'
She watched him in silence. He seemed deadened.
`But where shall I stay?' she asked, feeling humiliated.
He thought for a moment.
`Here, with me,' he said. `We're married as much today as we shall be tomorrow.'
`But --'
`I'll tell Mrs Varley,' he said. `Never mind now.'
He sat looking at her. She could feel his darkened steady eyes looking at her all the time. It made her a little bit frightened. She pushed her hair off her forehead nervously.
`Do I look ugly?' she said.
And she blew her nose again.
A small smile came round his eyes.
`No,' he said, `fortunately.'
And he went across to her, and gathered her like a belonging in his arms. She was so tenderly beautiful, he could not bear to see her, he could only bear to hide her against himself. Now; washed all clean by her tears, she was new and frail like a flower just unfolded, a flower so new, so tender, so made perfect by inner light, that he could not bear to look at her, he must hide her against himself, cover his eyes against her. She had the perfect candour of creation, something translucent and simple, like a radiant, shining flower that moment unfolded in primal blessedness. She was so new, so wonder-clear, so undimmed. And he was so old, so steeped in heavy memories. Her soul was new, undefined and glimmering with the unseen. And his soul was dark and gloomy, it had only one grain of living hope, like a grain of mustard seed. But this one living grain in him matched the perfect youth in her.
`I love you,' he whispered as he kissed her, and trembled with pure hope, like a man who is born again to a wonderful, lively hope far exceeding the bounds of death.
She could not know how much it meant to him, how much he meant by the few words. Almost childish, she wanted proof, and statement, even over-statement, for everything seemed still uncertain, unfixed to her.
But the passion of gratitude with which he received her into his soul, the extreme, unthinkable gladness of knowing himself living and fit to unite with her, he, who was so nearly dead, who was so near to being gone with the rest of his race down the slope of mechanical death, could never be understood by her. He worshipped her as age worships youth, he gloried in her, because, in his one grain of faith, he was young as she, he was her proper mate. This marriage with her was his resurrection and his life.
All this she could not know. She wanted to be made much of, to be adored. There were infinite distances of silence between them. How could he tell her of the immanence of her beauty, that was not form, or weight, or colour, but something like a strange, golden light! How could he know himself what her beauty lay in, for him. He said `Your nose is beautiful, your chin is adorable.' But it sounded like lies, and she was disappointed, hurt. Even when he said, whispering with truth, `I love you, I love you,' it was not the real truth. It was something beyond love, such a gladness of having surpassed oneself, of having transcended the old existence. How could he say "I" when he was something new and unknown, not himself at all? This I, this old formula of the age, was a dead letter.
In the new, superfine bliss, a peace superseding knowledge, there was no I and you, there was only the third, unrealised wonder, the wonder of existing not as oneself, but in a consummation of my being and of her being in a new one, a new, paradisal unit regained from the duality. Nor can I say `I love you,' when I have ceased to be, and you have ceased to be: we are both caught up and transcended into a new oneness where everything is silent, because there is nothing to answer, all is perfect and at one. Speech travels between the separate parts. But in the perfect One there is perfect silence of bliss.
They were married by law on the next day, and she did as he bade her, she wrote to her father and mother. Her mother replied, not her father.
She did not go back to school. She stayed with Birkin in his rooms, or at the Mill, moving with him as he moved. But she did not see anybody, save Gudrun and Gerald. She was all strange and wondering as yet, but relieved as by dawn.
Gerald sat talking to her one afternoon in the warm study down at the Mill. Rupert had not yet come home.
`You are happy?' Gerald asked her, with a smile.
`Very happy!' she cried, shrinking a little in her brightness.
`Yes, one can see it.'
`Can one?' cried Ursula in surprise.
He looked up at her with a communicative smile.
`Oh yes, plainly.'
She was pleased. She meditated a moment.
`And can you see that Rupert is happy as well?'
He lowered his eyelids, and looked aside.
`Oh yes,' he said.
`Really!'
`Oh yes.'
He was very quiet, as if it were something not to be talked about by him. He seemed sad.
She was very sensitive to suggestion. She asked the question he wanted her to ask.
`Why don't you be happy as well?' she said. `You could be just the same.'
He paused a moment.
`With Gudrun?' he asked.
`Yes!' she cried, her eyes glowing. But there was a strange tension, an emphasis, as if they were asserting their wishes, against the truth.
`You think Gudrun would have me, and we should be happy?' he said.
`Yes, I'm sure!' she cried.
Her eyes were round with delight. Yet underneath she was constrained, she knew her own insistence.
`Oh, I'm so glad,' she added.
He smiled.
`What makes you glad?' he said.
`For her sake,' she replied. `I'm sure you'd -- you're the right man for her.'
`You are?' he said. `And do you think she would agree with you?'
`Oh yes!' she exclaimed hastily. Then, upon reconsideration, very uneasy: `Though Gudrun isn't so very simple, is she? One doesn't know her in five minutes, does one? She's not like me in that.' She laughed at him with her strange, open, dazzled face.
`You think she's not much like you?' Gerald asked.
She knitted her brows.
`Oh, in many ways she is. But I never know what she will do when anything new comes.'
`You don't?' said Gerald. He was silent for some moments. Then he moved tentatively. `I was going to ask her, in any case, to go away with me at Christmas,' he said, in a very small, cautious voice.
`Go away with you? For a time, you mean?'
`As long as she likes,' he said, with a deprecating movement.
They were both silent for some minutes.
`Of course,' said Ursula at last, `she might just be willing to rush into marriage. You can see.'
`Yes,' smiled Gerald. `I can see. But in case she won't -- do you think she would go abroad with me for a few days -- or for a fortnight?'
`Oh yes,' said Ursula. `I'd ask her.'
`Do you think we might all go together?'
`All of us?' Again Ursula's face lighted up. `It would be rather fun, don't you think?'
`Great fun,' he said.
`And then you could see,' said Ursula.
`What?'
`How things went. I think it is best to take the honeymoon before the wedding -- don't you?'
She was pleased with this mot. He laughed.
`In certain cases,' he said. `I'd rather it were so in my own case.'
`Would you!' exclaimed Ursula. Then doubtingly, `Yes, perhaps you're right. One should please oneself.'
Birkin came in a little later, and Ursula told him what had been said.
`Gudrun!' exclaimed Birkin. `She's a born mistress, just as Gerald is a born lover -- amant en titre. If as somebody says all women are either wives or mistresses, then Gudrun is a mistress.'
`And all men either lovers or husbands,' cried Ursula. `But why not both?'
`The one excludes the other,' he laughed.
`Then I want a lover,' cried Ursula.
`No you don't,' he said.
`But I do,' she wailed.
He kissed her, and laughed.
It was two days after this that Ursula was to go to fetch her things from the house in Beldover. The removal had taken place, the family had gone. Gudrun had rooms in Willey Green.
Ursula had not seen her parents since her marriage. She wept over the rupture, yet what was the good of making it up! Good or not good, she could not go to them. So her things had been left behind and she and Gudrun were to walk over for them, in the afternoon.
It was a wintry afternoon, with red in the sky, when they arrived at the house. The windows were dark and blank, already the place was frightening. A stark, void entrance-hall struck a chill to the hearts of the girls.
`I don't believe I dare have come in alone,' said Ursula. `It frightens me.'
`Ursula!' cried Gudrun. `Isn't it amazing! Can you believe you lived in this place and never felt it? How I lived here a day without dying of terror, I cannot conceive!'
They looked in the big dining-room. It was a good-sized room, but now a cell would have been lovelier. The large bay windows were naked, the floor was stripped, and a border of dark polish went round the tract of pale boarding.
In the faded wallpaper were dark patches where furniture had stood, where pictures had hung. The sense of walls, dry, thin, flimsy-seeming walls, and a flimsy flooring, pale with its artificial black edges, was neutralising to the mind. Everything was null to the senses, there was enclosure without substance, for the walls were dry and papery. Where were they standing, on earth, or suspended in some cardboard box? In the hearth was burnt paper, and scraps of half-burnt paper.
`Imagine that we passed our days here!' said Ursula.
`I know,' cried Gudrun. `It is too appalling. What must we be like, if we are the contents of this!'
`Vile!' said Ursula. `It really is.'
And she recognised half-burnt covers of `Vogue' -- half-burnt representations of women in gowns -- lying under the grate.
They went to the drawing-room. Another piece of shut-in air; without weight or substance, only a sense of intolerable papery imprisonment in nothingness. The kitchen did look more substantial, because of the redtiled floor and the stove, but it was cold and horrid.
The two girls tramped hollowly up the bare stairs. Every sound reechoed under their hearts. They tramped down the bare corridor. Against the wall of Ursula's bedroom were her things -- a trunk, a work-basket, some books, loose coats, a hat-box, standing desolate in the universal emptiness of the dusk.
`A cheerful sight, aren't they?' said Ursula, looking down at her forsaken possessions.
`Very cheerful,' said Gudrun.
The two girls set to, carrying everything down to the front door. Again and again they made the hollow, re-echoing transit. The whole place seemed to resound about them with a noise of hollow, empty futility. In the distance the empty, invisible rooms sent forth a vibration almost of obscenity. They almost fled with the last articles, into the out-of-door.
But it was cold. They were waiting for Birkin, who was coming with the car. They went indoors again, and upstairs to their parents' front bedroom, whose windows looked down on the road, and across the country at the black-barred sunset, black and red barred, without light.
They sat down in the window-seat, to wait. Both girls were looking over the room. It was void, with a meaninglessness that was almost dreadful.
`Really,' said Ursula, `this room couldn't be sacred, could it?'
Gudrun looked over it with slow eyes.
`Impossible,' she replied.
`When I think of their lives -- father's and mother's, their love, and their marriage, and all of us children, and our bringing-up -- would you have such a life, Prune?'
`I wouldn't, Ursula.'
`It all seems so nothing -- their two lives -- there's no meaning in it. Really, if they had not met, and not married, and not lived together -- it wouldn't have mattered, would it?'
`Of course -- you can't tell,' said Gudrun.
`No. But if I thought my life was going to be like it -- Prune,' she caught Gudrun's arm, `I should run.'
Gudrun was silent for a few moments.
`As a matter of fact, one cannot contemplate the ordinary life -- one cannot contemplate it,' replied Gudrun. `With you, Ursula, it is quite different. You will be out of it all, with Birkin. He's a special case. But with the ordinary man, who has his life fixed in one place, marriage is just impossible. There may be, and there are, thousands of women who want it, and could conceive of nothing else. But the very thought of it sends me mad. One must be free, above all, one must be free. One may forfeit everything else, but one must be free -- one must not become 7, Pinchbeck Street -- or Somerset Drive -- or Shortlands. No man will be sufficient to make that good -- no man! To marry, one must have a free lance, or nothing, a comrade-in-arms, a Glckstritter. A man with a position in the social world -- well, it is just impossible, impossible!'
`What a lovely word -- a Glckstritter!' said Ursula. `So much nicer than a soldier of fortune.'
`Yes, isn't it?' said Gudrun. `I'd tilt the world with a Glcksritter. But a home, an establishment! Ursula, what would it mean? -- think!'
`I know,' said Ursula. `We've had one home -- that's enough for me.'
`Quite enough,' said Gudrun.
`The little grey home in the west,' quoted Ursula ironically.
`Doesn't it sound grey, too,' said Gudrun grimly.
They were interrupted by the sound of the car. There was Birkin. Ursula was surprised that she felt so lit up, that she became suddenly so free from the problems of grey homes in the west.
They heard his heels click on the hall pavement below.
`Hello!' he called, his voice echoing alive through the house. Ursula smiled to herself. He was frightened of the place too.
`Hello! Here we are,' she called downstairs. And they heard him quickly running up.
`This is a ghostly situation,' he said.
`These houses don't have ghosts -- they've never had any personality, and only a place with personality can have a ghost,' said Gudrun.
`I suppose so. Are you both weeping over the past?'
`We are,' said Gudrun, grimly.
Ursula laughed.
`Not weeping that it's gone, but weeping that it ever was,' she said.
`Oh,' he replied, relieved.
He sat down for a moment. There was something in his presence, Ursula thought, lambent and alive. It made even the impertinent structure of this null house disappear.
`Gudrun says she could not bear to be married and put into a house,' said Ursula meaningful -- they knew this referred to Gerald.
He was silent for some moments.
`Well,' he said, `if you know beforehand you couldn't stand it, you're safe.'
`Quite!' said Gudrun.
`Why does every woman think her aim in life is to have a hubby and a little grey home in the west? Why is this the goal of life? Why should it be?' said Ursula.
`Il faut avoir le respect de ses btises,' said Birkin.
`But you needn't have the respect for the betise before you've committed it,' laughed Ursula.
`Ah then, des betises du papa?'
`Et de la maman,' added Gudrun satirically.
`Et des voisins,' said Ursula.
They all laughed, and rose. It was getting dark. They carried the things to the car. Gudrun locked the door of the empty house. Birkin had lighted the lamps of the automobile. It all seemed very happy, as if they were setting out.
`Do you mind stopping at Coulsons. I have to leave the key there,' said Gudrun.
`Right,' said Birkin, and they moved off.

乌尔苏拉突然大公司说,在明亮的声音,我和鲁伯特打算明天要结婚了。“
她的父亲转过身,僵硬地。
`你说什么?“ 他说。
“明天!” 戈珍呼应。
“的确!” 母亲说。
但是乌苏拉奇妙地笑了笑,没有回答。
`明天结婚!“ 她的父亲哭严厉。`你在说什么。“
是的,“厄秀拉说。“为什么不呢?” 这两个词,她总是开着,他疯了。`一切都是正确的 - 我们应当到登记处的办公室 -
第二,在房间里的寂静后,Ursula的欢乐的模糊。
“”真的,厄休拉!“ 戈珍说。
“我们可能会问,为什么有这样秘密?” 母亲要求,相当高档。
`但是有没有,“乌苏拉说。” 你知道。“
`谁知道?“ 现在哭了,父亲。`谁知道?你是什​​么意思“你知道”?“
他在他那愚蠢的肆虐,她立刻对他关闭。
“”你当然知道,“她冷冷地说。你知道我们要结婚了。“
有一个危险的暂停。
'我们知道你要结婚了,我们什么吗?知道了!为什么,没有任何人对你一无所知,你缩骨婊子!“
“父亲!” “戈珍哭,冲洗深暴力谏。然后,在一个寒冷,但温柔的声音,仿佛在提醒她的妹妹是听话的:`但是,是不是一个可畏突然的决定,乌苏拉?“她问道。”
回答:“不,不是真的,”乌苏拉,具有相同的令人发狂的快乐。`他要我同意周 - 他已经准备好许可证。只有我 - 我还没有准备好自己。现在,我准备好了 - 有什么不悦?“
“”当然不是,“戈珍说,但在冷责备的口吻。`你是完全自由地做,只要你喜欢。“
`“准备好自己” - 你自己,这是最重要的事情,是不是!“我还没有准备好自己,”他模仿她的那句进攻。`你自己,你有一定的重要性,是不是你?“
她挺直了身子,她的喉咙,她的眼睛闪着黄色的和危险的。
`我对自己,“她说,伤者和羞愧。我知道我不是为了别人。你只是想欺负我 - 你从来不关心我的幸福。“
他向前倾看着她,他的脸像火花激烈。
`乌苏拉,你在说什么?仍然保持你的舌头,她的母亲哭了。
厄休拉转过身,在她的眼里闪过的灯光。
“不,我不会的,”她哭了。`我不会握住我的舌头,被人欺负。这有什么关系我结婚的这一天 - 有什么关系!它不会影响任何人,但我自己。“
她的父亲很紧张,,即将春天聚集在一起像一只猫。
`不是吗?“ 他哭了,接近她。她退缩了。
“不,怎么能呢?” 她回答说,萎缩,但固执。
`这并不重要,我的话,你做什么 - 你会变成什么?“ 他哭了,在像一声奇怪的声音。
站在后面的母亲和戈珍仿佛被催眠。
不,“乌苏拉结结巴巴地说。她的父亲是她非常接近。你只希望 - '
她知道这是危险的,她停了下来。他被聚集在一起,准备好每一块肌肉。
“”什么?“ 他挑战。
欺负我,“她喃喃自语,甚至动嘴唇,他的手抓住了她嫌在脸侧,她被送到靠在门上。
“父亲!” 戈珍叫道呼声很高,这是不可能的!“
他站在那里一动不动。“乌苏拉恢复,她的手在门把手上。她慢慢地挺直了身子。他似乎现在呆坏账。
“这是真的,”她宣布,与辉煌的眼泪在她的眼睛,她的头抬起蔑视。`你的爱意味着什么,是什么它曾经是什么意思?欺负,拒绝 - 做 -
他再次推进陌生,紧张的动作,握紧拳头,面对一个杀人犯。但是迅疾如闪电,她已经闪现出了门,他们听到她楼上运行。
他站了一会儿,看着门口。然后,像一个被打败的动物,他转身又回到自己的座位由火。
戈珍是很白。出于激烈的沉默,听到妈妈的声音说,寒冷和愤怒:
“好吧,你不应该拿这么多她的通知。”
再次一片寂静,每个跟随一组独立的情感和想法。
突然,门又开了:乌苏拉,穿着帽子和皮草,在她的手一个小手提箱:
`再见!“ 她说,在她的令人发狂的,明亮的,几乎嘲讽的语气。`我要去。“
大门被关闭在接下来的瞬间,他们听到的外门,然后她快速步骤殃民,那么,门砰的一声,她轻快的脚步声消失了。像死在房子里一片沉默。
乌苏拉直奔车站,加速于不顾翅足。有没有火车,她必须走的交界处。正如她在黑暗中去,她就开始哭了起来,她痛哭,一个哑了,心破碎,孩子的痛苦,所有的道路上,在火车上。无人理睬和未知时间的流逝,她不知道她在哪里,也没有什么正在发生。只有她哭了从深不可测深度无望,绝望的悲痛,一个孩子的可怕的悲伤,不知道减轻罪责。
然而,她的声音有相同的防守亮度她说话Birkin的房东在门口。
“晚上好!” Birkin的先生是?我可以看看他吗?“
“是的,他英寸,他是在他的书房。”
厄休拉溜过去的女人。他的门开了。他听到她的声音。
“你好!” 他惊讶地叫道,看到她站在那里与的手提箱在她的手,泪水在她的脸上的痕迹。她是谁哭了不显示许多痕迹,像一个孩子。
“不要看我一见倾心呢?她说,萎缩。
“不 - 为什么?进来吧,“他把袋子从她的手,他们投入到学习中去。
- 立刻,她的嘴唇开始颤抖像一个孩子,再次回忆,眼泪就抢着。
“”什么事?“ 他问,她在他的怀里。她剧烈地抽泣着他的肩膀上,而他抱着她仍然等待。
“”什么事?“ 他又说了一遍,当她是安静的。但她只按她的脸进一步到他的肩膀,痛苦,就像一个孩子,不能告诉。
`这是什么呢?“ 他问道。突然,她挣开,擦了擦眼睛,收复了她的沉着,去和坐在椅子上。
`父亲打我,“她宣布,坐在揉成,而不是像一个竖起的小鸟,她的眼睛非常明亮。
什么?他说。
她扭过头去,并没有回答。有一个可怜的她敏感的鼻孔发红,她的嘴唇发抖。
“为什么?” 他重复了一遍,他用奇怪的,柔和,穿透力的声音。
她回头望望他,而不是挑衅。
“”因为我说我本来打算明天要结婚了,他欺负我。“
“他为什么欺负你?”
她的嘴再度回落,她再一次想起了现场,眼泪出来了。
`因为我说他不在乎 - 他没有,只有他的domineeringness,受伤了 - “她说,她的嘴歪拉她的哭泣,所有的时间她说话,让他几乎笑了,似乎太幼稚了。然而,这是不幼稚,这是一个致命的冲突,一道深深的伤口。
`这是不太正确的,“他说。`即使是这样,你不应该说出来。“
`这是真实的 - 它是真实的,“她哭了,他假装的爱,我不会被人欺负 - 当它不是 - 他不关心,怎么能他 - 不,他不能 - “
他沉默地坐着。她搬到他超越自己。
那么你不应该唤醒他,如果他不能,回答说:'Birkin的悄然。
`我曾经爱过他,我,“她哭了。“”我曾经爱过他,而且他总是这样对我,他有 -
`这是一个爱的反对的话,“他说。没关系 - 这将是所有权利。这没什么绝望。“
是的,“她哭了,”是,是。“
“为什么?”
`我从来没有看到他了 - “
`不会立即进行。不要哭了,你跟他不得不打破,它必须不要哭了。“
他走过去,对她并吻了她细腻,脆弱的头发,轻轻抚摸她的脸颊湿。
别哭,“他重复道,”不要哭了。“
他抱住头收了他,非常密切和安静的。
最后,她还在。然后她抬起头,她的眼睛睁得大大受惊。
`难道你不想我吗?“ “她问道。”
`想你吗?“ 他昏暗的,稳定的眼睛疑惑的她并没有给她的发挥。
“你希望我从来没有来?” 她问,现在又着急怕她出来的地方。
不,“他说。“我希望没有暴力 - 这么大的丑 - 但也许这是不可避免的。”
她看着他在沉默中。他似乎麻木了。
“可是我留下来吗?” 她问,感觉受辱。
他想了一会儿。
`在这里,与我同在,“他说。`我们结婚尽可能多的今天,我们将明天。“
“但是 - ”
“我会告诉刘瓦利,”他说。`现在不要介意。“
他坐在那里看着她。她能感觉到他的黑暗稳定的眼睛看着她所有的时间。这让她有点害怕。她推着她的头发她的额头上紧张。
“我长得难看吗?' 她说。
她再次吹响了她的鼻子。
一个小小的微笑来圆他的眼睛。
不,“他说,幸运的。”
他就走了过去,并收集她在他的怀里像归属感。她是如此温柔美丽,他不忍看她,他只能忍受她对自己隐瞒。现在,她的眼泪洗干净,她是新的和年老体弱的像一朵花刚刚展开,花太新了,那么​​的温柔,内心的光,他不忍看她如此完美,他必须隐藏她对他自己,他的眼睛对她。她有完美的创造坦率,半透明的和简单的东西,像一个光芒四射,闪耀的花的那一刻展现在原始的幸福。她是如此的新,所以难怪清晰,所以丝毫未减。他这么老了,所以沉浸在沉重的回忆。她的灵魂是新的,不确定的和若隐若现的与看不见的。他的灵魂,只有一个像一粒芥菜种粮的生活希望,晦暗。但这一次他的生活粮食匹配完美的青年在她的。
他低声说:'我爱你',他吻了她,并希望用纯颤抖,像一个男人谁是天生的又一个美好的,活泼的盼望,远远超过死亡的界限。
她不可能不知道多少他的意思,他是多么的几句话的意思。几乎是孩子气,她想证明,声明,甚至在声明中,一切似乎仍然不明朗,她不固定。
但激情的感激之情,他收到她到他的灵魂,知道自己生活的极端情况下,难以想象的快乐和适合她团结,他,他是如此的近死,谁是那么近,去与他其余的顺着斜坡机械死亡赛跑,永远无法理解她。他崇拜她随着年龄拜金的青年,他得意于她,因为,在他的一粒信仰,他是年轻的,因为她,他是她合适的伴侣。这与她的婚姻是他的复活和他的生活。
这一切,她不可能不知道。她希望被重视了,被崇拜。他们之间的沉默有无限距离。他怎么能告诉她内在她的美貌,并没有形成,或重,或颜色,而是像一个奇怪的东西,金色的光芒!他怎么会知道自己躺在她的美貌,他。他说:`你的鼻子是美丽的,是可爱的你的下巴。“ 但它听起来像说谎,她很失望,伤害。即使他说,窃窃私语,用真理,'我爱你,我爱你',那是不是真正的真理。它是超越爱情,超越自己,超越了旧的存在这样的喜乐。他怎么能说“我”时,他是新的和未知的东西,而不是自己呢?这是我这个年龄的老配方,是一纸空文。
在新的超细幸福,和平取代知识,有没有我和你,只有第三,未变现难怪,不作为自己存在的奇迹,但在完善我的存在,她是在一个新的一,从对偶收复一个新的​​,天堂般的单位。我也不能说'我爱你'时,我已经不再是,你已不再是:我们都赶上并超越到一个新的统一性,这里的一切是无声的,因为没有什么回答,一切是完美的并在一个。言语传播之间的单独部分。但在完美的一个沉默的幸福是完美的。
法律上他们结婚的第二天,她照他的吩咐她,她写信给她的父亲和母亲。她的母亲回答说,不是她的父亲。
她没有回学校去。她呆在一起的Birkin在他的房间,或在磨房,移动与他,他感动。但她没有看到任何人,拯救戈珍和杰拉德。她是所有奇怪的,不知道还,但由黎明缓解。
杰拉德坐在她的一个下午,在温暖的研究下来的穆勒说话。鲁珀特还没有回家。
你幸福吗?“ 杰拉尔德问她,面带微笑。
`很幸福!“ 她哭了,退缩了她亮度。
“是的,我们可以看到它。”
“可以吗?” 厄秀拉叫道惊喜。
他抬头看着她与交际的笑容。
“哦,是,明明白白。”
她很高兴。她沉思了片刻。
“”你可以看到,鲁珀特是幸福的呢?“
他降低了他的眼皮,看了看一旁。
“”哦,是的,“他说。
“真的!”
'哦,是的。“
他很安静,就好像它是不是被谈论他。他似乎悲伤。
她是非常敏感的建议。她问他要她问的问题。
“为什么不快乐呢?” 她说。你可能只是相同。
他停顿了片刻。
`戈珍?他问道。
“”是的!“ 她哭了,她的眼睛发光。但有一个奇怪的张力,重点,因为如果他们声称自己的意愿,违背真理。
你认为Gudrun。将有我,我们应该感到高兴吗?“ 他说。
“是的,我敢肯定!” 她哭着说。
她的眼睛呈圆形与喜悦。然而,她的下面被限制,她知道她自己的坚​​持。
“哦,我很高兴,”她补充说。“
他笑了。
`是什么让你高兴吗?“ 他说。
`为了她,“她回答。我敢肯定,你 - 你是她的合适人选。“
“你是谁?” 他说。`你认为她会同意你的看法呢?“
'哦,是的!“ 她急忙喊道。然后,复议后,非常不安:`戈珍虽然不是那么很简单,就是她吗?人们不知道她在五分钟内,做一个?她不喜欢我。“ 她奇怪的,开放的,眼花缭乱的脸,她笑他。
你觉得她是不是很像你?“ 杰拉尔德问。
她编织她的眉毛。
“哦,在许多方面,她是。但我从来不知道她会做什么时,任何新的东西来。“
`你不?“ 杰拉尔德说。他沉默了一会儿。然后他搬到暂定。`我要去问她,在任何情况下,在圣诞节跟我走,“他说,在一个非常小的,谨慎的声音。
`你走开?一时间,你的意思吗?“
“”只要她喜欢,“他说,与自嘲的运动。
他们都沉默了几分钟。
“”当然,说:“最后,乌苏拉`她可能只是愿意急于走进婚姻。你可以看到。“
是的,“杰拉德笑着说。`我可以看到。但她不会 - 你认为她会去国外跟我几天 - 或两星期?“
“”哦,是的,“乌苏拉说。” 我问她。“
“你认为我们可能都一起去?”
`我们所有的人吗?' 再次Ursula的满脸喜色。这将是相当有趣,不要你认为呢?
`大乐趣,“他说。
`然后你可以看到,“乌苏拉说。”
“”什么?“
`如何的事情去了。我认为这是最好的蜜月婚礼前 - 没有你?“
她很高兴这个MOT。他笑了。
`在某些情况下,“他说。“我宁愿它是等我自己的情况。”
“请问你!” 乌苏拉惊呼。然后半信半疑,“是的,也许你说得对。每个人都应该取悦自己。“
柏金后,来到这里,和乌苏拉告诉他说了什么。
“戈珍!” Birkin的惊呼。`她是一个天生的情妇,就像杰拉德是一个天生的情人 - 阿芒EN滴度。如果有人说,所有的女人都是任妻子或情妇,然后戈珍是一个情妇。“
`所有的人无论是恋人或丈夫,“厄秀拉叫道。`但是,为什么不?
`排除其他的,“他笑了起来。
`然后我想要一个情人,“厄秀拉叫道。
`你不这样做,“他说。
“但我做的,”她哭着说。
他吻了她,笑了起来。
这是这两天后,乌苏拉去从Beldover的房子取她的东西。去除已发生,家里人已经走了。戈珍威利绿色客房。
乌苏拉从来没有见过她的父母,因为她的婚姻。破裂,她哭了,但什么是好补差!好还是没好,她不能去给他们。所以,她的东西已经留下她和戈珍走过去对他们来说,在下午。
那是一个冬天的下午,用红色的天空,当他们到达房子。窗户是黑暗和空白的地方是可怕的。一个鲜明的,无效的入口大厅来袭寒意的女孩的心。
`我不相信,说:“我不敢独自来乌苏拉。`我害怕。“
“乌苏拉!” 戈珍哭了。`是不是很神奇!你能相信你住在这个地方,从来没有感觉到它吗?如何我在这里住了一天,没有死亡的恐怖,我无法想象!“
看着他们在大饭厅。这是一个很好的大小的房间,但现在是一个细胞会一直可爱。宽大的飘窗是赤身露体,地板被剥夺,和深色抛光的边框传遍道苍白登机。
在褪了色的壁纸的家具照片已经挂在那里站着,暗斑。感的墙壁,干,薄,看似脆弱的墙壁,是站不住脚的地板,苍白与人工黑边,是中和的头脑。一切都是空的感觉,有没有物质外壳,墙壁干燥,纸质。他们在哪里站着,在地球上,在一些纸板箱或暂停?在炉边已经烧毁了半烧毁的纸张,及废料。
`试想一下,我们在这里通过我们的日子!“ 厄秀拉说。
我知道,“戈珍哭了。” `这是太骇人了。我们必须像什么,如果我们的内容!“
“卑鄙!” 厄秀拉说。`这真的是。“
她认出了半烧毁`Vogue“杂志封面 - 妇女在袍 - 半烧毁的陈述躺在根据篦。
他们去了客厅。关闭另一块没有重量或物质在空气中,只有一个不能容忍的纸质入狱虚无感。厨房也看起来更加可观,因为redtiled的地板和炉灶,但它是寒冷和可怕的。
两个女孩跋涉空洞了裸楼梯。每一个声音reechoed根据他们的心中。他们绕过了光秃秃的走廊。靠墙Ursula的卧室是她的东西 - 一个行李箱,一个工作篮,一些书,宽松的大衣,一顶帽子盒,站在荒凉的普遍空虚的黄昏。
一个欢快的景象,不是吗?“ 厄秀拉说,低头看着她被遗弃的财产。
`很开朗,“戈珍说。”
两个女孩设置,承载一切下来到前门。他们一次又一次地做了镂空,重新呼应过境的。整个地方似乎中空,空徒劳的噪音回荡。在距离空,无形间就差遣的振动几乎意淫。他们几乎逃离过去的文章,进入的门。
但它是冷。他们等待的Birkin,谁是未来的汽车。他们再次去室内,楼上父母的前面卧室的窗户放在眼里的​​道路上,在全国范围内禁止黑禁止日落,黑色和红色,没有光。
他们在窗台上坐了下来,要等。两个女孩看着满屋子。它是无效的,这是一个无意义几乎可怕。
“说真的,”厄秀拉说,“这个房间不能是神圣的,它可以吗?”
戈珍看着它缓慢的眼睛。
`不可能的,“她回答。
当我觉得自己的生活 - 父亲和母亲,他们的爱情,他们的婚姻,我们的孩子,我们带来了 - 你有这样的生活,修剪?“
“我不会,乌苏拉。
`这一切似乎都那么什么 - 他们两个人的生命 - 它有没有意义。真的,如果他们没有满足,没有结婚,没有住在一起 - 它不会也无妨,会吗?“
` - 当然你不能告诉,“戈珍说。”
号` 但是,如果我想我的生活将是喜欢它 - 修剪,她抓住了戈珍的胳膊,我应该跑。“
戈珍沉默了片刻。
事实上,人们可以不考虑普通的生活 - 一个可以不考虑它,“戈珍回答。`你,乌苏拉,它是完全不同的。你将它的所有,与柏金。他是一个特殊情况。但与普通的人,谁都有自己的生活固定在一个地方,结婚是不可能的。有可能是,有成千上万的妇女谁想要它,可以设想,没有别的。但想到这将我逼疯了。一是必须是免费的,高于一切,一个人必须是免费的。有人可能会放弃一切,但必须是免费的 - 绝不能成为7,冒牌街 - 萨默塞特驱动器 - 或肖特兰。必无一人足以使好 - 没有人!要结婚,一个人必须有一个自由职业者,或什么都没有,一位同志在胳膊,Glckstritter。社会世界中的位置 - 一个人好,是不可能的,不可能!“
`一个多么可爱的字 - 一个Glckstritter!厄秀拉说。`所以比兵痞好得多。
“是的,是不是?” 戈珍说。`我倾世与Glcksritter。但是,一个家庭,建立!乌苏拉,这一切意味着什么呢? - 想想!“
`我知道,“乌苏拉说。” `我们已经有一个家 - 这足以让我。“
`很够,“戈珍说。”
`灰色的小家在西部,“引述乌苏拉具有讽刺意味的​​。
`不健全的灰色,太“戈珍说,冷冷地。
打断了他们的汽车的声音。有Birkin的。乌苏拉很惊讶,她觉得太亮了起来,她突然变得那么灰色家园的问题在西部。
他们听到他的脚后跟点击下面大厅路面上。
“你好!” 他打电话,他的歌声回荡通过房子活着。乌苏拉对自己笑了笑。他被吓坏了的地方。
“你好!我们在这里,“她叫楼下。他们听到他迅速跑起来。
`这是一个幽灵般的情况,“他说。
这些房子没有鬼 - 他们从来没有任何个性,有个性,只有一个地方可以有一个幽灵,“戈珍说。”
`我想是这样。你俩哭泣的过去吗?“
我们,“戈珍说,狞笑着。
乌苏拉笑了起来。
`不哭泣,它走了,但哭泣,它曾经是,“她说。
“哦,”他回答说,松了一口气。
他坐了一会儿。在他面前的东西,乌苏拉认为,轻轻摇曳,充满活力。它制成甚至无礼的​​结构,这个空房子消失。
厄秀拉说:“戈珍说,她不忍成房子要结婚了,并把”有意义的 - 他们知道这是指杰拉尔德。
他沉默了一会儿。
“好吧,”他说,“如果你事先知道你受不了了,你的安全。”
“不少!” 戈珍说。
“为什么每个女人都觉得她的人生目标是在西部有一个丈夫和一个灰色的小家呢?为什么这是人生的目标?为什么应该是什么?“ 厄秀拉说。
`IL FAUT avoir LE尊重SES btises,“伯金说。
可是你需要尊重betise之前,你犯了没有,“笑乌苏拉。
“啊,DES betises杜爸爸吗?”
`ET DE LA马曼,“戈珍加入讽刺。
`ET DES VOISINS,“乌苏拉说。”
他们都笑了,和玫瑰。天快黑。他们携带的东西到汽车。戈珍的空房子锁上了门。Birkin的点灯汽车。这一切都显得十分高兴,因为如果他们设置。
“你介意停在Coulsons。我要离开的关键,“戈珍说。”
`,“伯金说,他们离开。
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。
゛臉紅紅....

ZxID:704295


等级: 内阁元老
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
举报 只看该作者 28楼  发表于: 2013-10-29 0
。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 28 Gudrun in the Pompadour


CHRISTMAS DREW NEAR, all four prepared for flight. Birkin and Ursula were busy packing their few personal things, making them ready to be sent off, to whatever country and whatever place they might choose at last. Gudrun was very much excited. She loved to be on the wing.
She and Gerald, being ready first, set off via London and Paris to Innsbruck, where they would meet Ursula and Birkin. In London they stayed one night. They went to the music-hall, and afterwards to the Pompadour Cafe.
Gudrun hated the Cafe, yet she always went back to it, as did most of the artists of her acquaintance. She loathed its atmosphere of petty vice and petty jealousy and petty art. Yet she always called in again, when she was in town. It was as if she had to return to this small, slow, central whirlpool of disintegration and dissolution: just give it a look.
She sat with Gerald drinking some sweetish liqueur, and staring with black, sullen looks at the various groups of people at the tables. She would greet nobody, but young men nodded to her frequently, with a kind of sneering familiarity. She cut them all. And it gave her pleasure to sit there, cheeks flushed, eyes black and sullen, seeing them all objectively, as put away from her, like creatures in some menagerie of apish degraded souls. God, what a foul crew they were! Her blood beat black and thick in her veins with rage and loathing. Yet she must sit and watch, watch. One or two people came to speak to her. From every side of the Cafe, eyes turned half furtively, half jeeringly at her, men looking over their shoulders, women under their hats.
The old crowd was there, Carlyon in his corner with his pupils and his girl, Halliday and Libidnikov and the Pussum -- they were all there. Gudrun watched Gerald. She watched his eyes linger a moment on Halliday, on Halliday's party. These last were on the look-out -- they nodded to him, he nodded again. They giggled and whispered among themselves. Gerald watched them with the steady twinkle in his eyes. They were urging the Pussum to something.
She at last rose. She was wearing a curious dress of dark silk splashed and spattered with different colours, a curious motley effect. She was thinner, her eyes were perhaps hotter, more disintegrated. Otherwise she was just the same. Gerald watched her with the same steady twinkle in his eyes as she came across. She held out her thin brown hand to him.
`How are you?' she said.
He shook hands with her, but remained seated, and let her stand near him, against the table. She nodded blackly to Gudrun, whom she did not know to speak to, but well enough by sight and reputation.
`I am very well,' said Gerald. `And you?'
`Oh I'm all wight. What about Wupert?'
`Rupert? He's very well, too.'
`Yes, I don't mean that. What about him being married?'
`Oh -- yes, he is married.'
The Pussum's eyes had a hot flash.
`Oh, he's weally bwought it off then, has he? When was he married?'
`A week or two ago.'
`Weally! He's never written.'
`No.'
`No. Don't you think it's too bad?'
This last was in a tone of challenge. The Pussum let it be known by her tone, that she was aware of Gudrun's listening.
`I suppose he didn't feel like it,' replied Gerald.
`But why didn't he?' pursued the Pussum.
This was received in silence. There was an ugly, mocking persistence in the small, beautiful figure of the short-haired girl, as she stood near Gerald.
`Are you staying in town long?' she asked.
`Tonight only.'
`Oh, only tonight. Are you coming over to speak to Julius?'
`Not tonight.'
`Oh very well. I'll tell him then.' Then came her touch of diablerie. `You're looking awf'lly fit.'
`Yes -- I feel it.' Gerald was quite calm and easy, a spark of satiric amusement in his eye.
`Are you having a good time?'
This was a direct blow for Gudrun, spoken in a level, toneless voice of callous ease.
`Yes,' he replied, quite colourlessly.
`I'm awf'lly sorry you aren't coming round to the flat. You aren't very faithful to your fwiends.'
`Not very,' he said.
She nodded them both `Good-night', and went back slowly to her own set. Gudrun watched her curious walk, stiff and jerking at the loins. They heard her level, toneless voice distinctly.
`He won't come over; -- he is otherwise engaged,' it said. There was more laughter and lowered voices and mockery at the table.
`Is she a friend of yours?' said Gudrun, looking calmly at Gerald.
`I've stayed at Halliday's flat with Birkin,' he said, meeting her slow, calm eyes. And she knew that the Pussum was one of his mistresses -- and he knew she knew.
She looked round, and called for the waiter. She wanted an iced cocktail, of all things. This amused Gerald -- he wondered what was up.
The Halliday party was tipsy, and malicious. They were talking out loudly about Birkin, ridiculing him on every point, particularly on his marriage.
`Oh, don't make me think of Birkin,' Halliday was squealing. `He makes me perfectly sick. He is as bad as Jesus. "Lord, what must I do to be saved!"'
He giggled to himself tipsily.
`Do you remember,' came the quick voice of the Russian, `the letters he used to send. "Desire is holy--"'
`Oh yes!' cried Halliday. `Oh, how perfectly splendid. Why, I've got one in my pocket. I'm sure I have.'
He took out various papers from his pocket book.
`I'm sure I've -- hic! Oh dear! -- got one.'
Gerald and Gudrun were watching absorbedly.
`Oh yes, how perfectly -- hic! -- splendid! Don't make me laugh, Pussum, it gives me the hiccup. Hic! --' They all giggled.
`What did he say in that one?' the Pussum asked, leaning forward, her dark, soft hair falling and swinging against her face. There was something curiously indecent, obscene, about her small, longish, dark skull, particularly when the ears showed.
`Wait -- oh do wait! No-o, I won't give it to you, I'll read it aloud. I'll read you the choice bits, -- hic! Oh dear! Do you think if I drink water it would take off this hiccup? Hic! Oh, I feel perfectly helpless.'
`Isn't that the letter about uniting the dark and the light -- and the Flux of Corruption?' asked Maxim, in his precise, quick voice.
`I believe so,' said the Pussum.
`Oh is it? I'd forgotten -- hic! -- it was that one,' Halliday said, opening the letter. `Hic! Oh yes. How perfectly splendid! This is one of the best. "There is a phase in every race --"' he read in the sing-song, slow, distinct voice of a clergyman reading the Scriptures, `"When the desire for destruction overcomes every other desire. In the individual, this desire is ultimately a desire for destruction in the self" -- hic! --' he paused and looked up.
`I hope he's going ahead with the destruction of himself,' said the quick voice of the Russian. Halliday giggled, and lolled his head back, vaguely.
`There's not much to destroy in him,' said the Pussum. `He's so thin already, there's only a fag-end to start on.'
`Oh, isn't it beautiful! I love reading it! I believe it has cured my hiccup!' squealed Halliday. `Do let me go on. "It is a desire for the reduction process in oneself, a reducing back to the origin, a return along the Flux of Corruption, to the original rudimentary conditions of being --!" Oh, but I do think it is wonderful. It almost supersedes the Bible--'
`Yes -- Flux of Corruption,' said the Russian, `I remember that phrase.'
`Oh, he was always talking about Corruption,' said the Pussum. `He must be corrupt himself, to have it so much on his mind.'
`Exactly!' said the Russian.
`Do let me go on! Oh, this is a perfectly wonderful piece! But do listen to this. "And in the great retrogression, the reducing back of the created body of life, we get knowledge, and beyond knowledge, the phosphorescent ecstasy of acute sensation." Oh, I do think these phrases are too absurdly wonderful. Oh but don't you think they are -- they're nearly as good as Jesus. "And if, Julius, you want this ecstasy of reduction with the Pussum, you must go on till it is fulfilled. But surely there is in you also, somewhere, the living desire for positive creation, relationships in ultimate faith, when all this process of active corruption, with all its flowers of mud, is transcended, and more or less finished --" I do wonder what the flowers of mud are. Pussum, you are a flower of mud.'
`Thank you -- and what are you?'
`Oh, I'm another, surely, according to this letter! We're all flowers of mud -- Fleurs -- hic! du mal! It's perfectly wonderful, Birkin harrowing Hell -- harrowing the Pompadour -- Hic!'
`Go on -- go on,' said Maxim. `What comes next? It's really very interesting.'
`I think it's awful cheek to write like that,' said the Pussum.
`Yes -- yes, so do I,' said the Russian. `He is a megalomaniac, of course, it is a form of religious mania. He thinks he is the Saviour of man -- go on reading.'
`Surely,' Halliday intoned, ` "surely goodness and mercy hath followed me all the days of my life --" ' he broke off and giggled. Then he began again, intoning like a clergyman. ` "Surely there will come an end in us to this desire -- for the constant going apart, -- this passion for putting asunder -- everything -- ourselves, reducing ourselves part from part -- reacting in intimacy only for destruction, -- using sex as a great reducing agent, reducing the two great elements of male and female from their highly complex unity -- reducing the old ideas, going back to the savages for our sensations, -- always seeking to lose ourselves in some ultimate black sensation, mindless and infinite -- burning only with destructive fires, raging on with the hope of being burnt out utterly --" '
`I want to go,' said Gudrun to Gerald, as she signalled the waiter. Her eyes were flashing, her cheeks were flushed. The strange effect of Birkin's letter read aloud in a perfect clerical sing-song, clear and resonant, phrase by phrase, made the blood mount into her head as if she were mad.
She rose, whilst Gerald was paying the bill, and walked over to Halliday's table. They all glanced up at her.
`Excuse me,' she said. `Is that a genuine letter you are reading?'
`Oh yes,' said Halliday. `Quite genuine.'
`May I see?'
Smiling foolishly he handed it to her, as if hypnotised.
`Thank you,' she said.
And she turned and walked out of the Cafe with the letter, all down the brilliant room, between the tables, in her measured fashion. It was some moments before anybody realised what was happening.
From Halliday's table came half articulate cries, then somebody booed, then all the far end of the place began booing after Gudrun's retreating form. She was fashionably dressed in blackish-green and silver, her hat was brilliant green, like the sheen on an insect, but the brim was soft dark green, a falling edge with fine silver, her coat was dark green, lustrous, with a high collar of grey fur, and great fur cuffs, the edge of her dress showed silver and black velvet, her stockings and shoes were silver grey. She moved with slow, fashionable indifference to the door. The porter opened obsequiously for her, and, at her nod, hurried to the edge of the pavement and whistled for a taxi. The two lights of a vehicle almost immediately curved round towards her, like two eyes.
Gerald had followed in wonder, amid all the booing, not having caught her misdeed. He heard the Pussum's voice saying:
`Go and get it back from her. I never heard of such a thing! Go and get it back from her. Tell Gerald Crich -- there he goes -- go and make him give it up.'
Gudrun stood at the door of the taxi, which the man held open for her.
`To the hotel?' she asked, as Gerald came out, hurriedly.
`Where you like,' he answered.
`Right!' she said. Then to the driver, `Wagstaff's -- Barton Street.'
The driver bowed his head, and put down the flag.
Gudrun entered the taxi, with the deliberate cold movement of a woman who is well-dressed and contemptuous in her soul. Yet she was frozen with overwrought feelings. Gerald followed her.
`You've forgotten the man,' she said cooly, with a slight nod of her hat. Gerald gave the porter a shilling. The man saluted. They were in motion.
`What was all the row about?' asked Gerald, in wondering excitement.
`I walked away with Birkin's letter,' she said, and he saw the crushed paper in her hand.
His eyes glittered with satisfaction.
`Ah!' he said. `Splendid! A set of jackasses!'
`I could have killed them!' she cried in passion. `Dogs! -- they are dogs! Why is Rupert such a fool as to write such letters to them? Why does he give himself away to such canaille? It's a thing that cannot be borne.'
Gerald wondered over her strange passion.
And she could not rest any longer in London. They must go by the morning train from Charing Cross. As they drew over the bridge, in the train, having glimpses of the river between the great iron girders, she cried:
`I feel I could never see this foul town again -- I couldn't bear to come back to it.'
 
圣诞节快到了,他们四个人都准备出走了。伯金和厄秀拉忙着打点行李物品,准备运走。不管是哪个国家,哪个地方,选好了地方就可以运送东西。戈珍十分激动。她喜欢旅行。
她和杰拉德先做好了准备,就启程上路了。经过伦敦和巴黎去因斯布鲁克,在那儿和厄秀拉及伯金相会。他们在伦敦过了一夜。他们先去听音乐,然后去庞巴多酒馆。
戈珍讨厌酒馆,可总得来这儿,她熟识的艺术家们都来这儿。她讨厌这里的气氛,充满了小阴谋、妒嫉和小气的艺术。可她一来伦敦总得来这儿。似乎她必须到这狭小的、堕落与死亡的缓缓转动的旋风中心。只是来看看而已。
她和杰拉德喝着甜酒,阴郁的眼睛凝视着桌旁一群一群的人。她跟谁都不打招呼,可小伙子们却不停地冲她点头调笑着,似乎很熟悉的样子。她理都不理他们这帮人。她绯红着脸坐在那儿,目光阴郁,从容地打量着他们,就象远远地观看着动物园中的猿猴一样。她感到这样很开心。天啊,这是一帮多么卑鄙的人!她看到他们就气不打一处来,对他们恨之入骨。可她必须坐在那儿看着他们。他们当中有一两个人过来跟她打招呼。酒馆的每一面都有眼睛在偷看她,眼神里带着嘲弄的意味,男的扭过头看她,女的则从帽子下看她。
那群故旧们都在这儿。卡里昂和他的学生及女友坐在他常坐的角落里。海里戴,里比德尼科夫及米纳蒂都在。戈珍看着杰拉德,发现他的目光停留在海里戴那帮人那边。这些人注视着他,冲他点点头,他也冲他们点点头。然后那几个人嘻笑着窃窃私语起来。杰拉德目光炯炯地看着他们。他们在怂恿米纳蒂做什么事。
米纳蒂终于站起身来。她身着黑绸衣,衣服上印着长长的浅条子,给人奇怪的线条感。她比以前瘦了,她的眼睛更显大了,目光更不诚实了。除此之外她没什么变化。杰拉德目不转睛地盯着她向这边走来。她向他伸出干瘦、白皙的手说:
“你好。”
他同她握手,但仍旧坐着,让她挨着桌子站立着。她冲戈珍冷漠地点头,她不知道该怎么跟她打招呼,但知道她很有名气,一看就知她是什么人。
“我很好,你呢?”杰拉德说。
“哦,我还好。卢伯特怎么样?”
“卢伯特?他也很好。”
“我知道,我指的不是这个。我是问他结婚了吗?”
“哦,结了,他结婚了。”
米纳蒂的目光变得热辣辣的。
“哦,他真地这样做了?什么时候结的?”
“一两周以前。”
“真的!他没写信告诉我们呀。”
“没有?”
“没有。你不觉得这样太不好了吗?”
这后一句话是一种挑战,从米纳蒂的语调里流露出来,她注意到戈珍在听。
“我想他不愿意这样做。”杰拉德说。
“为什么?”米纳蒂追问。
没人回答。这位短发漂亮的小个子女人站在杰拉德身边显得很固执,语气很有嘲弄的意味。
“你会在城里住好久吗?”她问。
“只今天晚上。”
“啊,今晚。要过来跟裘里斯谈谈吗?”
“今天晚上不行。”
“那好。我去告诉他。”随后又装神弄鬼地说:“你看上去很健康。”
“是的,我有这感觉。”杰拉德显得很洒脱,眼睛里闪着嘲弄、快活的目光。
“你过得不错吧?”
这句话对戈珍是个直接的打击,那语调平缓,冷漠而随便。
“是的。”他毫无感情色彩地说。
“很遗憾,你不能过来。你对朋友可不够意思呀。”
“不太够意思。”他说。
她冲他们两个点点头告别,缓缓地向她的座位走去。戈珍看着她,发觉她走路的姿势很怪:身体僵直,腰部却在扭。
他们听到她在那边有气无力地说:
“他不来——人家有人约了。”随后那边桌上发出更大声的说笑和窃窃私语。
“她是你的朋友吗?”戈珍沉静地看着杰拉德。
“我和伯金一起在海里戴家住过。”他迎着戈珍沉静审视的目光说,她知道米纳蒂是他的情妇之一——他清楚她知道这事。
她四下张望一下,唤来了侍从。她此时最想喝冰镇鸡尾酒。这让杰拉德心中暗笑,心想这有什么了不起的?
海里戴这帮人喝醉了,说出话来很恶毒。他们大声地议论伯金,讽刺他做的每件事,特别是他的婚姻。
“哦,别跟我提伯金,”海里戴尖声说,“他让我恶心。他跟基督一样坏。‘天啊,我怎么才能得救啊?!’”
说着他自己醉熏熏地窃笑起来。
“你还记得他常写的信吗?”那俄国人说话速度很快。
“‘欲望是神圣的’。”
“啊,对!”海里戴叫道,“太妙了。我衣袋里还有一封呢。
我肯定有。”
他说着从衣袋里掏出一堆纸来。
“我肯定我有!呃,天啊,有一封!”
杰拉德和戈珍全神贯注地看着他们。
“啊,太妙了,真妙,呃!别逗我笑,米纳蒂,它让我打嗝儿,嗝儿!”大家都笑了。
“他信中说什么了?”米纳蒂凑过去看,松散的头发飘落下来盖住了脸。她那又小又长的头显得不那么体面,特别是露出耳朵时更是这样。
“等会儿,等等!不,不,我不给你看,我来念。我念最好玩的那一段——嗝儿!天啊,我喝点水是不是就不会打嗝儿了?嗝儿!啊,我没救了!”
“是不是谈黑暗与光明的结合,还有,就是腐蚀流?”马克西姆说话快但吐音很准确。
“我想是这些。”米纳蒂说。
“哦,是吗?我都忘了——嗝儿——是那封,”海里戴说着展开了信。“嗝儿——,是的。简直太妙了!这是最妙的一封信。‘每个民族都有这么一句话——’”他象念《圣经》的牧师那样缓慢、清晰地念着信,“‘毁灭欲会战胜任何别的欲望。在每个人身上,这种欲望就是毁灭自我的欲望’——嗝儿——”他停下来看着大家。
“我希望他先毁灭自己做个样子再说,”那俄国人很快地说。海里戴窃笑着,有气无力地向后仰着头。
“他没什么可毁灭的,”米纳蒂说,“他已经够瘦的了,只有一把骨头渣儿了。”
“哦,很好!我喜欢读这种信!我相信它治好了我的病,不打嗝儿了!”海里戴尖叫着。“听我接着念下去嘛。‘这是一种衰退的过程,退回原形状态,随着腐蚀流回归,回归到生命原本的基本状态——!’啊,我的确觉得这太神奇了。它超过《圣经》了。”
“对,腐蚀流这句话,”俄国人说,“我记住这句话了。”
“他总在谈什么腐蚀,”米纳蒂说,“他一定很堕落,否则脑子里就不会想这么多。”
“很对!”俄国人说。
“让我念下去!哦,这一段妙不可言!听着。‘是在这大退化中,在生命体的退化中,我们获得了知识,超越了知识,获得了至深的感觉,这是一种狂喜。’哦,我真觉得这些话荒谬得出奇。你们不这样看吗?这些话象耶稣说的。‘如果,裘里斯,你需要和米纳蒂产生这种退化的狂喜,你就应该争取,直到获得了它。当然,你身上肯定也有一种活生生的积极创造欲——极端忠诚的关系,当活跃的腐蚀之花开败后。’我真不知道这些腐蚀之花是什么。米纳蒂,你是这样的花。”
“谢谢,那你是什么呢?”
“啊,我是另一朵,按照这封信所说我肯定是的!我们都是——嗝儿——恶之花!这太妙了,伯金是一座折磨人的地狱。折磨人的庞巴多——嗝儿!”
“接着念,念下去,”马克西姆说,“下面的话是什么?太有意思了。”
“我觉得这样写太可怕了。”米纳蒂说。
“是啊,我也这么看,”俄国人说,“他是个妄自尊大的人,当然这表现出他的宗教疯狂症,他觉得他是人类的救星。接着读。”
“当然了,”海里戴拖长声音道,“‘当然了,我一生中都有善和宽容追随着我——’”海里戴停下来窃笑着,然后又象个牧师一样拖长声音念看。“‘我们这种欲望肯定会消失的,因为这种毁灭的激情会破碎,把我们一点点地粉碎——亲昵只是为了毁灭,性成了退化的媒介,把男人和女人这两种基本因素高度复杂的统一体削弱——削弱旧的观念,回归到野性的感觉中去,不断地寻求在黑暗的感知中失去自我。盲目地、无限地被毁灭的火焰燃烧,希望被火烧尽——’”
“我想走了,”戈珍对杰拉德边说边打手式叫来侍从。她眼睛发亮,脸颊绯红。海里戴象牧师一样逐字逐句地朗读伯金的信,声音清晰又响亮,这让她觉得血直往头上涌,令她发疯。
杰拉德付款时,她站起身向海里戴桌边走去。他们都抬头看她。
“请原谅,”她说,“你念的是一封真正的信吗?”
“哦,是的,”海里戴说,“确实是真的。”
“我可以看看吗?”
海里戴着了迷似地傻笑着把信递给她。
“谢谢。”她说。
说完她拿着信走出了酒馆,款款地从桌子中间穿过,走出了这灯火辉煌的屋子。好半天以后人们才意识到都发生了些什么事儿。
海里戴桌旁发出轻蔑的“呸”,然后这个角落的人们都冲戈珍的背影啐起来。她墨绿色与银灰相间的衣服很时髦,帽子是嫩绿色的,就象昆虫的壳,但帽沿儿则是深绿的,描了一圈银边。她的外衣是墨绿的,闪闪发光,毛领子高高竖起,衣服镶着银色与黑色的绸边儿。她的袜子和鞋子是银灰色的。她拿着架子缓缓、漠然地向门口走去。侍从谄媚地为她开门并守在门边伺候,在她示意下奔向便道旁打个口哨唤来出租车。车上的两盏灯几乎象两只眼睛一样立即向她转过来。
杰拉德在一片啐声中追出来,他不知道戈珍有什么做得不对,他听到米纳蒂说:
“去,把信从她那儿要回来。从来没有见过这种事!向她要回来。去告诉杰拉德·克里奇——他走了,让他向她要。”
戈珍站在车门边,侍从为她打开了门。
“去旅馆吗?”她冲匆匆而来的杰拉德问。
“你乐意去哪儿就去哪儿。”他说。
“好!”她说。然后对司机说,“去瓦格斯塔夫——巴顿大街。”
司机点点头,放下旗子。
戈珍故做冷漠,象所有衣着华贵、目空一切的女人一样进了汽车。杰拉德随她进了汽车。
“你忘了那仆人,”她冷漠地点一下头。杰拉德忙给了侍从一个先令。那人敬个礼。车开动了。
“他们闹什么呢?”杰拉德不解地问。
“我拿了伯金的信就走开了。”她看看手中揉烂了的信说。
他露出满意的眼神。
“啊!”他说,“太好了!一群笨蛋!”
“我真想杀了他们!”她激动地说,“一群狗!他们是一群狗!卢伯特真傻,怎么会给他们写这样的信?!他干吗要向这群下等人暴露思想?这太不能令人容忍了。”
杰拉德揣度着她这奇特的激情。
她在伦敦再也呆不下去了。他们必须坐早车离开这儿。他们在火车经过大桥时,她望着铁桥下的河水叫道:
“我再也不要见到这肮脏的城市了,一回来我就无法忍受这地方。”
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。
゛臉紅紅....

ZxID:704295


等级: 内阁元老
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
举报 只看该作者 29楼  发表于: 2013-10-29 0
。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 29 Continental


URSULA WENT on in an unreal suspense, the last weeks before going away. She was not herself, -- she was not anything. She was something that is going to be -- soon -- soon -- very soon. But as yet, she was only imminent.
She went to see her parents. It was a rather stiff, sad meeting, more like a verification of separateness than a reunion. But they were all vague and indefinite with one another, stiffened in the fate that moved them apart.
She did not really come to until she was on the ship crossing from Dover to Ostend. Dimly she had come down to London with Birkin, London had been a vagueness, so had the train-journey to Dover. It was all like a sleep.
And now, at last, as she stood in the stern of the ship, in a pitch-dark, rather blowy night, feeling the motion of the sea, and watching the small, rather desolate little lights that twinkled on the shores of England, as on the shores of nowhere, watched them sinking smaller and smaller on the profound and living darkness, she felt her soul stirring to awake from its anaesthetic sleep.
`Let us go forward, shall we?' said Birkin. He wanted to be at the tip of their projection. So they left off looking at the faint sparks that glimmered out of nowhere, in the far distance, called England, and turned their faces to the unfathomed night in front.
They went right to the bows of the softly plunging vessel. In the complete obscurity, Birkin found a comparatively sheltered nook, where a great rope was coiled up. It was quite near the very point of the ship, near the black, unpierced space ahead. There they sat down, folded together, folded round with the same rug, creeping in nearer and ever nearer to one another, till it seemed they had crept right into each other, and become one substance. It was very cold, and the darkness was palpable.
One of the ship's crew came along the deck, dark as the darkness, not really visible. They then made out the faintest pallor of his face. He felt their presence, and stopped, unsure -- then bent forward. When his face was near them, he saw the faint pallor of their faces. Then he withdrew like a phantom. And they watched him without making any sound.
They seemed to fall away into the profound darkness. There was no sky, no earth, only one unbroken darkness, into which, with a soft, sleeping motion, they seemed to fall like one closed seed of life falling through dark, fathomless space.
They had forgotten where they were, forgotten all that was and all that had been, conscious only in their heart, and there conscious only of this pure trajectory through the surpassing darkness. The ship's prow cleaved on, with a faint noise of cleavage, into the complete night, without knowing, without seeing, only surging on.
In Ursula the sense of the unrealised world ahead triumphed over everything. In the midst of this profound darkness, there seemed to glow on her heart the effulgence of a paradise unknown and unrealised. Her heart was full of the most wonderful light, golden like honey of darkness, sweet like the warmth of day, a light which was not shed on the world, only on the unknown paradise towards which she was going, a sweetness of habitation, a delight of living quite unknown, but hers infallibly. In her transport she lifted her face suddenly to him, and he touched it with his lips. So cold, so fresh, so sea-clear her face was, it was like kissing a flower that grows near the surf.
But he did not know the ecstasy of bliss in fore-knowledge that she knew. To him, the wonder of this transit was overwhelming. He was falling through a gulf of infinite darkness, like a meteorite plunging across the chasm between the worlds. The world was torn in two, and he was plunging like an unlit star through the ineffable rift. What was beyond was not yet for him. He was overcome by the trajectory.
In a trance he lay enfolding Ursula round about. His face was against her fine, fragile hair, he breathed its fragrance with the sea and the profound night. And his soul was at peace; yielded, as he fell into the unknown. This was the first time that an utter and absolute peace had entered his heart, now, in this final transit out of life.
When there came some stir on the deck, they roused. They stood up. How stiff and cramped they were, in the night-time! And yet the paradisal glow on her heart, and the unutterable peace of darkness in his, this was the all-in-all.
They stood up and looked ahead. Low lights were seen down the darkness. This was the world again. It was not the bliss of her heart, nor the peace of his. It was the superficial unreal world of fact. Yet not quite the old world. For the peace and the bliss in their hearts was enduring.
Strange, and desolate above all things, like disembarking from the Styx into the desolated underworld, was this landing at night. There was the raw, half-lighted, covered-in vastness of the dark place, boarded and hollow underfoot, with only desolation everywhere. Ursula had caught sight of the big, pallid, mystic letters `OSTEND,' standing in the darkness. Everybody was hurrying with a blind, insect-like intentness through the dark grey air, porters were calling in un-English English, then trotting with heavy bags, their colourless blouses looking ghostly as they disappeared; Ursula stood at a long, low, zinc-covered barrier, along with hundreds of other spectral people, and all the way down the vast, raw darkness was this low stretch of open bags and spectral people, whilst, on the other side of the barrier, pallid officials in peaked caps and moustaches were turning the underclothing in the bags, then scrawling a chalk-mark.
It was done. Birkin snapped the hand bags, off they went, the porter coming behind. They were through a great doorway, and in the open night again -- ah, a railway platform! Voices were still calling in inhuman agitation through the dark-grey air, spectres were running along the darkness between the train.
`Koln -- Berlin --' Ursula made out on the boards hung on the high train on one side.
`Here we are,' said Birkin. And on her side she saw: `Elsass -- Lothringen -- Luxembourg, Metz -- Basle.'
`That was it, Basle!'
The porter came up.
`A Bale -- deuxieme classe? -- Voila!' And he clambered into the high train. They followed. The compartments were already some of them taken. But many were dim and empty. The luggage was stowed, the porter was tipped.
`Nous avons encore -- ?' said Birkin, looking at his watch and at the porter.
`Encore une demi-heure.' With which, in his blue blouse, he disappeared. He was ugly and insolent.
`Come,' said Birkin. `It is cold. Let us eat.'
There was a coffee-wagon on the platform. They drank hot, watery coffee, and ate the long rolls, split, with ham between, which were such a wide bite that it almost dislocated Ursula's jaw; and they walked beside the high trains. It was all so strange, so extremely desolate, like the underworld, grey, grey, dirt grey, desolate, forlorn, nowhere -- grey, dreary nowhere.
At last they were moving through the night. In the darkness Ursula made out the flat fields, the wet flat dreary darkness of the Continent. They pulled up surprisingly soon -- Bruges! Then on through the level darkness, with glimpses of sleeping farms and thin poplar trees and deserted highroads. She sat dismayed, hand in hand with Birkin. He pale, immobile like a revenant himself, looked sometimes out of the window, sometimes closed his eyes. Then his eyes opened again, dark as the darkness outside.
A flash of a few lights on the darkness -- Ghent station! A few more spectres moving outside on the platform -- then the bell -- then motion again through the level darkness. Ursula saw a man with a lantern come out of a farm by the railway, and cross to the dark farm-buildings. She thought of the Marsh, the old, intimate farm-life at Cossethay. My God, how far was she projected from her childhood, how far was she still to go! In one life-time one travelled through aeons. The great chasm of memory from her childhood in the intimate country surroundings of Cossethay and the Marsh Farm -- she remembered the servant Tilly, who used to give her bread and butter sprinkled with brown sugar, in the old living-room where the grandfather clock had two pink roses in a basket painted above the figures on the face -- and now when she was travelling into the unknown with Birkin, an utter stranger -- was so great, that it seemed she had no identity, that the child she had been, playing in Cossethay churchyard, was a little creature of history, not really herself.
They were at Brussels -- half an hour for breakfast. They got down. On the great station clock it said six o'clock. They had coffee and rolls and honey in the vast desert refreshment room, so dreary, always so dreary, dirty, so spacious, such desolation of space. But she washed her face and hands in hot water, and combed her hair -- that was a blessing.
Soon they were in the train again and moving on. The greyness of dawn began. There were several people in the compartment, large florid Belgian business-men with long brown beards, talking incessantly in an ugly French she was too tired to follow.
It seemed the train ran by degrees out of the darkness into a faint light, then beat after beat into the day. Ah, how weary it was! Faintly, the trees showed, like shadows. Then a house, white, had a curious distinctness. How was it? Then she saw a village -- there were always houses passing.
This was an old world she was still journeying through, winter-heavy and dreary. There was plough-land and pasture, and copses of bare trees, copses of bushes, and homesteads naked and work-bare. No new earth had come to pass.
She looked at Birkin's face. It was white and still and eternal, too eternal. She linked her fingers imploringly in his, under the cover of her rug. His fingers responded, his eyes looked back at her. How dark, like a night, his eyes were, like another world beyond! Oh, if he were the world as well, if only the world were he! If only he could call a world into being, that should be their own world!
The Belgians left, the train ran on, through Luxembourg, through Alsace-Lorraine, through Metz. But she was blind, she could see no more. Her soul did not look out.
They came at last to Basle, to the hotel. It was all a drifting trance, from which she never came to. They went out in the morning, before the train departed. She saw the street, the river, she stood on the bridge. But it all meant nothing. She remembered some shops -- one full of pictures, one with orange velvet and ermine. But what did these signify? -- nothing.
She was not at ease till they were in the train again. Then she was relieved. So long as they were moving onwards, she was satisfied. They came to Zurich, then, before very long, ran under the mountains, that were deep in snow. At last she was drawing near. This was the other world now.
Innsbruck was wonderful, deep in snow, and evening. They drove in an open sledge over the snow: the train had been so hot and stifling. And the hotel, with the golden light glowing under the porch, seemed like a home.
They laughed with pleasure when they were in the hall. The place seemed full and busy.
`Do you know if Mr and Mrs Crich -- English -- from Paris, have arrived?' Birkin asked in German.
The porter reflected a moment, and was just going to answer, when Ursula caught sight of Gudrun sauntering down the stairs, wearing her dark glossy coat, with grey fur.
`Gudrun! Gudrun!' she called, waving up the well of the staircase. `Shuhu!'
Gudrun looked over the rail, and immediately lost her sauntering, diffident air. Her eyes flashed.
`Really -- Ursula!' she cried. And she began to move downstairs as Ursula ran up. They met at a turn and kissed with laughter and exclamations inarticulate and stirring.
`But!' cried Gudrun, mortified. `We thought it was tomorrow you were coming! I wanted to come to the station.'
`No, we've come today!' cried Ursula. `Isn't it lovely here!'
`Adorable!' said Gudrun. `Gerald's just gone out to get something. Ursula, aren't you fearfully tired?'
`No, not so very. But I look a filthy sight, don't I!'
`No, you don't. You look almost perfectly fresh. I like that fur cap immensely!' She glanced over Ursula, who wore a big soft coat with a collar of deep, soft, blond fur, and a soft blond cap of fur.
`And you!' cried Ursula. `What do you think you look like!'
Gudrun assumed an unconcerned, expressionless face.
`Do you like it?' she said.
`It's very fine!' cried Ursula, perhaps with a touch of satire.
`Go up -- or come down,' said Birkin. For there the sisters stood, Gudrun with her hand on Ursula's arm, on the turn of the stairs half way to the first landing, blocking the way and affording full entertainment to the whole of the hall below, from the door porter to the plump Jew in black clothes.
The two young women slowly mounted, followed by Birkin and the waiter.
`First floor?' asked Gudrun, looking back over her shoulder.
`Second Madam -- the lift!' the waiter replied. And he darted to the elevator to forestall the two women. But they ignored him, as, chattering without heed, they set to mount the second flight. Rather chagrined, the waiter followed.
It was curious, the delight of the sisters in each other, at this meeting. It was as if they met in exile, and united their solitary forces against all the world. Birkin looked on with some mistrust and wonder.
When they had bathed and changed, Gerald came in. He looked shining like the sun on frost.
`Go with Gerald and smoke,' said Ursula to Birkin. `Gudrun and I want to talk.'
Then the sisters sat in Gudrun's bedroom, and talked clothes, and experiences. Gudrun told Ursula the experience of the Birkin letter in the cafe. Ursula was shocked and frightened.
`Where is the letter?' she asked.
`I kept it,' said Gudrun.
`You'll give it me, won't you?' she said.
But Gudrun was silent for some moments, before she replied:
`Do you really want it, Ursula?'
`I want to read it,' said Ursula.
`Certainly,' said Gudrun.
Even now, she could not admit, to Ursula, that she wanted to keep it, as a memento, or a symbol. But Ursula knew, and was not pleased. So the subject was switched off.
`What did you do in Paris?' asked Ursula.
`Oh,' said Gudrun laconically -- `the usual things. We had a fine party one night in Fanny Bath's studio.'
`Did you? And you and Gerald were there! Who else? Tell me about it.'
`Well,' said Gudrun. `There's nothing particular to tell. You know Fanny is frightfully in love with that painter, Billy Macfarlane. He was there -- so Fanny spared nothing, she spent very freely. It was really remarkable! Of course, everybody got fearfully drunk -- but in an interesting way, not like that filthy London crowd. The fact is these were all people that matter, which makes all the difference. There was a Roumanian, a fine chap. He got completely drunk, and climbed to the top of a high studio ladder, and gave the most marvellous address -- really, Ursula, it was wonderful! He began in French -- La vie, c'est une affaire d'ames imperiales -- in a most beautiful voice -- he was a fine-looking chap -- but he had got into Roumanian before he had finished, and not a soul understood. But Donald Gilchrist was worked to a frenzy. He dashed his glass to the ground, and declared, by God, he was glad he had been born, by God, it was a miracle to be alive. And do you know, Ursula, so it was -- ' Gudrun laughed rather hollowly.
`But how was Gerald among them all?' asked Ursula.
`Gerald! Oh, my word, he came out like a dandelion in the sun! He's a whole saturnalia in himself, once he is roused. I shouldn't like to say whose waist his arm did not go round. Really, Ursula, he seems to reap the women like a harvest. There wasn't one that would have resisted him. It was too amazing! Can you understand it?'
Ursula reflected, and a dancing light came into her eyes.
`Yes,' she said. `I can. He is such a whole-hogger.'
`Whole-hogger! I should think so!' exclaimed Gudrun. `But it is true, Ursula, every woman in the room was ready to surrender to him. Chanticleer isn't in it -- even Fanny Bath, who is genuinely in love with Billy Macfarlane! I never was more amazed in my life! And you know, afterwards -- I felt I was a whole roomful of women. I was no more myself to him, than I was Queen Victoria. I was a whole roomful of women at once. It was most astounding! But my eye, I'd caught a Sultan that time --'
Gudrun's eyes were flashing, her cheek was hot, she looked strange, exotic, satiric. Ursula was fascinated at once -- and yet uneasy.
They had to get ready for dinner. Gudrun came down in a daring gown of vivid green silk and tissue of gold, with green velvet bodice and a strange black-and-white band round her hair. She was really brilliantly beautiful and everybody noticed her. Gerald was in that full-blooded, gleaming state when he was most handsome. Birkin watched them with quick, laughing, half-sinister eyes, Ursula quite lost her head. There seemed a spell, almost a blinding spell, cast round their table, as if they were lighted up more strongly than the rest of the dining-room.
`Don't you love to be in this place?' cried Gudrun. `Isn't the snow wonderful! Do you notice how it exalts everything? It is simply marvellous. One really does feel iibermenschlich -- more than human.'
`One does,' cried Ursula. `But isn't that partly the being out of England?'
`Oh, of course,' cried Gudrun. `One could never feel like this in England, for the simple reason that the damper is never lifted off one, there. It is quite impossible really to let go, in England, of that I am assured.'
And she turned again to the food she was eating. She was fluttering with vivid intensity.
`It's quite true,' said Gerald, `it never is quite the same in England. But perhaps we don't want it to be -- perhaps it's like bringing the light a little too near the powder-magazine, to let go altogether, in England. One is afraid what might happen, if everybody else let go.'
`My God!' cried Gudrun. `But wouldn't it be wonderful, if all England did suddenly go off like a display of fireworks.'
`It couldn't,' said Ursula. `They are all too damp, the powder is damp in them.'
`I'm not so sure of that,' said Gerald.
`Nor I,' said Birkin. `When the English really begin to go off, en masse, it'll be time to shut your ears and run.'
`They never will,' said Ursula.
`We'll see,' he replied.
`Isn't it marvellous,' said Gudrun, `how thankful one can be, to be out of one's country. I cannot believe myself, I am so transported, the moment I set foot on a foreign shore. I say to myself "Here steps a new creature into life."'
`Don't be too hard on poor old England,' said Gerald. `Though we curse it, we love it really.'
To Ursula, there seemed a fund of cynicism in these words.
`We may,' said Birkin. `But it's a damnably uncomfortable love: like a love for an aged parent who suffers horribly from a complication of diseases, for which there is no hope.'
Gudrun looked at him with dilated dark eyes.
`You think there is no hope?' she asked, in her pertinent fashion.
But Birkin backed away. He would not answer such a question.
`Any hope of England's becoming real? God knows. It's a great actual unreality now, an aggregation into unreality. It might be real, if there were no Englishmen.'
`You think the English will have to disappear?' persisted Gudrun. It was strange, her pointed interest in his answer. It might have been her own fate she was inquiring after. Her dark, dilated eyes rested on Birkin, as if she could conjure the truth of the future out of him, as out of some instrument of divination.
He was pale. Then, reluctantly, he answered:
`Well -- what else is in front of them, but disappearance? They've got to disappear from their own special brand of Englishness, anyhow.'
Gudrun watched him as if in a hypnotic state, her eyes wide and fixed on him.
`But in what way do you mean, disappear? --' she persisted.
`Yes, do you mean a change of heart?' put in Gerald.
`I don't mean anything, why should I?' said Birkin. `I'm an Englishman, and I've paid the price of it. I can't talk about England -- I can only speak for myself.'
`Yes,' said Gudrun slowly, `you love England immensely, immensely, Rupert.'
`And leave her,' he replied.
`No, not for good. You'll come back,' said Gerald, nodding sagely.
`They say the lice crawl off a dying body,' said Birkin, with a glare of bitterness. `So I leave England.'
`Ah, but you'll come back,' said Gudrun, with a sardonic smile.
`Tant pis pour moi,' he replied.
`Isn't he angry with his mother country!' laughed Gerald, amused.
`Ah, a patriot!' said Gudrun, with something like a sneer.
Birkin refused to answer any more.
Gudrun watched him still for a few seconds. Then she turned away. It was finished, her spell of divination in him. She felt already purely cynical. She looked at Gerald. He was wonderful like a piece of radium to her. She felt she could consume herself and know all, by means of this fatal, living metal. She smiled to herself at her fancy. And what would she do with herself, when she had destroyed herself? For if spirit, if integral being is destructible, Matter is indestructible.
He was looking bright and abstracted, puzzled, for the moment. She stretched out her beautiful arm, with its fluff of green tulle, and touched his chin with her subtle, artist's fingers.
`What are they then?' she asked, with a strange, knowing smile.
`What?' he replied, his eyes suddenly dilating with wonder.
`Your thoughts.'
Gerald looked like a man coming awake.
`I think I had none,' he said.
`Really!' she said, with grave laughter in her voice.
And to Birkin it was as if she killed Gerald, with that touch.
`Ah but,' cried Gudrun, `let us drink to Britannia -- let us drink to Britannia.'
It seemed there was wild despair in her voice. Gerald laughed, and filled the glasses.
`I think Rupert means,' he said, `that nationally all Englishmen must die, so that they can exist individually and -- '
`Super-nationally --' put in Gudrun, with a slight ironic grimace, raising her glass.
The next day, they descended at the tiny railway station of Hohenhausen, at the end of the tiny valley railway. It was snow everywhere, a white, perfect cradle of snow, new and frozen, sweeping up an either side, black crags, and white sweeps of silver towards the blue pale heavens.
As they stepped out on the naked platform, with only snow around and above, Gudrun shrank as if it chilled her heart.
`My God, Jerry,' she said, turning to Gerald with sudden intimacy, `you've done it now.'
`What?'
She made a faint gesture, indicating the world on either hand.
`Look at it!'
She seemed afraid to go on. He laughed.
They were in the heart of the mountains. From high above, on either side, swept down the white fold of snow, so that one seemed small and tiny in a valley of pure concrete heaven, all strangely radiant and changeless and silent.
`It makes one feel so small and alone,' said Ursula, turning to Birkin and laying her hand on his arm.
`You're not sorry you've come, are you?' said Gerald to Gudrun.
She looked doubtful. They went out of the station between banks of snow.
`Ah,' said Gerald, sniffing the air in elation, `this is perfect. There's our sledge. We'll walk a bit -- we'll run up the road.'
Gudrun, always doubtful, dropped her heavy coat on the sledge, as he did his, and they set off. Suddenly she threw up her head and set off scudding along the road of snow, pulling her cap down over her ears. Her blue, bright dress fluttered in the wind, her thick scarlet stockings were brilliant above the whiteness. Gerald watched her: she seemed to be rushing towards her fate, and leaving him behind. He let her get some distance, then, loosening his limbs, he went after her.
Everywhere was deep and silent snow. Great snow-eaves weighed down the broad-roofed Tyrolese houses, that were sunk to the window-sashes in snow. Peasant-women, full-skirted, wearing each a cross-over shawl, and thick snow-boots, turned in the way to look at the soft, determined girl running with such heavy fleetness from the man, who was overtaking her, but not gaining any power over her.
They passed the inn with its painted shutters and balcony, a few cottages, half buried in the snow; then the snow-buried silent sawmill by the roofed bridge, which crossed the hidden stream, over which they ran into the very depth of the untouched sheets of snow. It was a silence and a sheer whiteness exhilarating to madness. But the perfect silence was most terrifying, isolating the soul, surrounding the heart with frozen air.
`It's a marvellous place, for all that,' said Gudrun, looking into his eyes with a strange, meaning look. His soul leapt.
`Good,' he said.
A fierce electric energy seemed to flow over all his limbs, his muscles were surcharged, his hands felt hard with strength. They walked along rapidly up the snow-road, that was marked by withered branches of trees stuck in at intervals. He and she were separate, like opposite poles of one fierce energy. But they felt powerful enough to leap over the confines of life into the forbidden places, and back again.
Birkin and Ursula were running along also, over the snow. He had disposed of the luggage, and they had a little start of the sledges. Ursula was excited and happy, but she kept turning suddenly to catch hold of Birkin's arm, to make sure of him.
`This is something I never expected,' she said. `It is a different world, here.'
They went on into a snow meadow. There they were overtaken by the sledge, that came tinkling through the silence. It was another mile before they came upon Gudrun and Gerald on the steep up-climb, beside the pink, half-buried shrine.
Then they passed into a gulley, where were walls of black rock and a river filled with snow, and a still blue sky above. Through a covered bridge they went, drumming roughly over the boards, crossing the snow-bed once more, then slowly up and up, the horses walking swiftly, the driver cracking his long whip as he walked beside, and calling his strange wild hue-hue!, the walls of rock passing slowly by, till they emerged again between slopes and masses of snow. Up and up, gradually they went, through the cold shadow-radiance of the afternoon, silenced by the imminence of the mountains, the luminous, dazing sides of snow that rose above them and fell away beneath.
They came forth at last in a little high table-land of snow, where stood the last peaks of snow like the heart petals of an open rose. In the midst of the last deserted valleys of heaven stood a lonely building with brown wooden walls and white heavy roof, deep and deserted in the waste of snow, like a dream. It stood like a rock that had rolled down from the last steep slopes, a rock that had taken the form of a house, and was now half-buried. It was unbelievable that one could live there uncrushed by all this terrible waste of whiteness and silence and clear, upper, ringing cold.
Yet the sledges ran up in fine style, people came to the door laughing and excited, the floor of the hostel rang hollow, the passage was wet with snow, it was a real, warm interior.
The new-comers tramped up the bare wooden stairs, following the serving woman. Gudrun and Gerald took the first bedroom. In a moment they found themselves alone in a bare, smallish, close-shut room that was all of golden-coloured wood, floor, walls, ceiling, door, all of the same warm gold panelling of oiled pine. There was a window opposite the door, but low down, because the roof sloped. Under the slope of the ceiling were the table with wash-hand bowl and jug, and across, another table with mirror. On either side the door were two beds piled high with an enormous blue-checked overbolster, enormous.
This was all -- no cupboard, none of the amenities of life. Here they were shut up together in this cell of golden-coloured wood, with two blue checked beds. They looked at each other and laughed, frightened by this naked nearness of isolation.
A man knocked and came in with the luggage. He was a sturdy fellow with flattish cheek-bones, rather pale, and with coarse fair moustache. Gudrun watched him put down the bags, in silence, then tramp heavily out.
`It isn't too rough, is it?' Gerald asked.
The bedroom was not very warm, and she shivered slightly.
`It is wonderful,' she equivocated. `Look at the colour of this panelling -it's wonderful, like being inside a nut.'
He was standing watching her, feeling his short-cut moustache, leaning back slightly and watching her with his keen, undaunted eyes, dominated by the constant passion, that was like a doom upon him.
She went and crouched down in front of the window, curious.
`Oh, but this -- !' she cried involuntarily, almost in pain.
In front was a valley shut in under the sky, the last huge slopes of snow and black rock, and at the end, like the navel of the earth, a white-folded wall, and two peaks glimmering in the late light. Straight in front ran the cradle of silent snow, between the great slopes that were fringed with a little roughness of pine-trees, like hair, round the base. But the cradle of snow ran on to the eternal closing-in, where the walls of snow and rock rose impenetrable, and the mountain peaks above were in heaven immediate. This was the centre, the knot, the navel of the world, where the earth belonged to the skies, pure, unapproachable, impassable.
It filled Gudrun with a strange rapture. She crouched in front of the window, clenching her face in her hands, in a sort of trance. At last she had arrived, she had reached her place. Here at last she folded her venture and settled down like a crystal in the navel of snow, and was gone.
Gerald bent above her and was looking out over her shoulder. Already he felt he was alone. She was gone. She was completely gone, and there was icy vapour round his heart. He saw the blind valley, the great cul-de-sac of snow and mountain peaks, under the heaven. And there was no way out. The terrible silence and cold and the glamorous whiteness of the dusk wrapped him round, and she remained crouching before the window, as at a shrine, a shadow.
`Do you like it?' he asked, in a voice that sounded detached and foreign. At least she might acknowledge he was with her. But she only averted her soft, mute face a little from his gaze. And he knew that there were tears in her eyes, her own tears, tears of her strange religion, that put him to nought.
Quite suddenly, he put his hand under her chin and lifted up her face to him. Her dark blue eyes, in their wetness of tears, dilated as if she was startled in her very soul. They looked at him through their tears in terror and a little horror. His light blue eyes were keen, small-pupilled and unnatural in their vision. Her lips parted, as she breathed with difficulty.
The passion came up in him, stroke after stroke, like the ringing of a bronze bell, so strong and unflawed and indomitable. His knees tightened to bronze as he hung above her soft face, whose lips parted and whose eyes dilated in a strange violation. In the grasp of his hand her chin was unutterably soft and silken. He felt strong as winter, his hands were living metal, invincible and not to be turned aside. His heart rang like a bell clanging inside him.
He took her up in his arms. She was soft and inert, motionless. All the while her eyes, in which the tears had not yet dried, were dilated as if in a kind of swoon of fascination and helplessness. He was superhumanly strong, and unflawed, as if invested with supernatural force.
He lifted her close and folded her against him. Her softness, her inert, relaxed weight lay against his own surcharged, bronze-like limbs in a heaviness of desirability that would destroy him, if he were not fulfilled. She moved convulsively, recoiling away from him. His heart went up like a flame of ice, he closed over her like steel. He would destroy her rather than be denied.
But the overweening power of his body was too much for her. She relaxed again, and lay loose and soft, panting in a little delirium. And to him, she was so sweet, she was such bliss of release, that he would have suffered a whole eternity of torture rather than forego one second of this pang of unsurpassable bliss.
`My God,' he said to her, his face drawn and strange, transfigured, `what next?'
She lay perfectly still, with a still, child-like face and dark eyes, looking at him. She was lost, fallen right away.
`I shall always love you,' he said, looking at her.
But she did not hear. She lay, looking at him as at something she could never understand, never: as a child looks at a grown-up person, without hope of understanding, only submitting.
He kissed her, kissed her eyes shut, so that she could not look any more. He wanted something now, some recognition, some sign, some admission. But she only lay silent and child-like and remote, like a child that is overcome and cannot understand, only feels lost. He kissed her again, giving up.
`Shall we go down and have coffee and Kuchen?' he asked.
The twilight was falling slate-blue at the window. She closed her eyes, closed away the monotonous level of dead wonder, and opened them again to the every-day world.
`Yes,' she said briefly, regaining her will with a click. She went again to the window. Blue evening had fallen over the cradle of snow and over the great pallid slopes. But in the heaven the peaks of snow were rosy, glistening like transcendent, radiant spikes of blossom in the heavenly upper-world, so lovely and beyond.
Gudrun saw all their loveliness, she knew how immortally beautiful they were, great pistils of rose-coloured, snow-fed fire in the blue twilight of the heaven. She could see it, she knew it, but she was not of it. She was divorced, debarred, a soul shut out.
With a last look of remorse, she turned away, and was doing her hair. He had unstrapped the luggage, and was waiting, watching her. She knew he was watching her. It made her a little hasty and feverish in her precipitation.
They went downstairs, both with a strange other-world look on their faces, and with a glow in their eyes. They saw Birkin and Ursula sitting at the long table in a corner, waiting for them.
`How good and simple they look together,' Gudrun thought, jealously. She envied them some spontaneity, a childish sufficiency to which she herself could never approach. They seemed such children to her.
`Such good Kranzkuchen!' cried Ursula greedily. `So good!'
`Right,' said Gudrun. `Can we have Kaffee mit Kranzkuchen?' she added to the waiter.
And she seated herself on the bench beside Gerald. Birkin, looking at them, felt a pain of tenderness for them.
`I think the place is really wonderful, Gerald,' he said; `prachtvoll and wunderbar and wunderschon and unbeschreiblich and all the other German adjectives.'
Gerald broke into a slight smile.
`I like it,' he said.
The tables, of white scrubbed wood, were placed round three sides of the room, as in a Gasthaus. Birkin and Ursula sat with their backs to the wall, which was of oiled wood, and Gerald and Gudrun sat in the corner next them, near to the stove. It was a fairly large place, with a tiny bar, just like a country inn, but quite simple and bare, and all of oiled wood, ceilings and walls and floor, the only furniture being the tables and benches going round three sides, the great green stove, and the bar and the doors on the fourth side. The windows were double, and quite uncurtained. It was early evening.
The coffee came -- hot and good -- and a whole ring of cake.
`A whole Kuchen!' cried Ursula. `They give you more than us! I want some of yours.'
There were other people in the place, ten altogether, so Birkin had found out: two artists, three students, a man and wife, and a Professor and two daughters -- all Germans. The four English people, being newcomers, sat in their coign of vantage to watch. The Germans peeped in at the door, called a word to the waiter, and went away again. It was not meal-time, so they did not come into this dining-room, but betook themselves, when their boots were changed, to the Reunionsaal.
The English visitors could hear the occasional twanging of a zither, the strumming of a piano, snatches of laughter and shouting and singing, a faint vibration of voices. The whole building being of wood, it seemed to carry every sound, like a drum, but instead of increasing each particular noise, it decreased it, so that the sound of the zither seemed tiny, as if a diminutive zither were playing somewhere, and it seemed the piano must be a small one, like a little spinet.
The host came when the coffee was finished. He was a Tyrolese, broad, rather flat-cheeked, with a pale, pock-marked skin and flourishing moustaches.
`Would you like to go to the Reunionsaal to be introduced to the other ladies and gentlemen?' he asked, bending forward and smiling, showing his large, strong teeth. His blue eyes went quickly from one to the other -he was not quite sure of his ground with these English people. He was unhappy too because he spoke no English and he was not sure whether to try his French.
`Shall we go to the Reunionsaal, and be introduced to the other people?' repeated Gerald, laughing.
There was a moment's hesitation.
`I suppose we'd better -- better break the ice,' said Birkin.
The women rose, rather flushed. And the Wirt's black, beetle-like, broad-shouldered figure went on ignominiously in front, towards the noise. He opened the door and ushered the four strangers into the play-room.
Instantly a silence fell, a slight embarrassment came over the company. The newcomers had a sense of many blond faces looking their way. Then, the host was bowing to a short, energetic-looking man with large moustaches, and saying in a low voice:
`Herr Professor, darf ich vorstellen--'
The Herr Professor was prompt and energetic. He bowed low to the English people, smiling, and began to be a comrade at once.
`Nehmen die Herrschaften teil an unserer Unterhaltung?' he said, with a vigorous suavity, his voice curling up in the question.
The four English people smiled, lounging with an attentive uneasiness in the middle of the room. Gerald, who was spokesman, said that they would willingly take part in the entertainment. Gudrun and Ursula, laughing, excited, felt the eyes of all the men upon them, and they lifted their heads and looked nowhere, and felt royal.
The Professor announced the names of those present, sans ceremonie. There was a bowing to the wrong people and to the right people. Everybody was there, except the man and wife. The two tall, clearskinned, athletic daughters of the professor, with their plain-cut, dark blue blouses and loden skirts, their rather long, strong necks, their clear blue eyes and carefully banded hair, and their blushes, bowed and stood back; the three students bowed very low, in the humble hope of making an impression of extreme good-breeding; then there was a thin, dark-skinned man with full eyes, an odd creature, like a child, and like a troll, quick, detached; he bowed slightly; his companion, a large fair young man, stylishly dressed, blushed to the eyes and bowed very low.
It was over.
`Herr Loerke was giving us a recitation in the Cologne dialect,' said the Professor.
`He must forgive us for interrupting him,' said Gerald, `we should like very much to hear it.'
There was instantly a bowing and an offering of seats. Gudrun and Ursula, Gerald and Birkin sat in the deep sofas against the wall. The room was of naked oiled panelling, like the rest of the house. It had a piano, sofas and chairs, and a couple of tables with books and magazines. In its complete absence of decoration, save for the big, blue stove, it was cosy and pleasant.
Herr Loerke was the little man with the boyish figure, and the round, full, sensitive-looking head, and the quick, full eyes, like a mouse's. He glanced swiftly from one to the other of the strangers, and held himself aloof.
`Please go on with the recitation,' said the Professor, suavely, with his slight authority. Loerke, who was sitting hunched on the piano stool, blinked and did not answer.
`It would be a great pleasure,' said Ursula, who had been getting the sentence ready, in German, for some minutes.
Then, suddenly, the small, unresponding man swung aside, towards his previous audience and broke forth, exactly as he had broken off; in a controlled, mocking voice, giving an imitation of a quarrel between an old Cologne woman and a railway guard.
His body was slight and unformed, like a boy's, but his voice was mature, sardonic, its movement had the flexibility of essential energy, and of a mocking penetrating understanding. Gudrun could not understand a word of his monologue, but she was spell-bound, watching him. He must be an artist, nobody else could have such fine adjustment and singleness. The Germans were doubled up with laughter, hearing his strange droll words, his droll phrases of dialect. And in the midst of their paroxysms, they glanced with deference at the four English strangers, the elect. Gudrun and Ursula were forced to laugh. The room rang with shouts of laughter. The blue eyes of the Professor's daughters were swimming over with laughter-tears, their clear cheeks were flushed crimson with mirth, their father broke out in the most astonishing peals of hilarity, the students bowed their heads on their knees in excess of joy. Ursula looked round amazed, the laughter was bubbling out of her involuntarily. She looked at Gudrun. Gudrun looked at her, and the two sisters burst out laughing, carried away. Loerke glanced at them swiftly, with his full eyes. Birkin was sniggering involuntarily. Gerald Crich sat erect, with a glistening look of amusement on his face. And the laughter crashed out again, in wild paroxysms, the Professor's daughters were reduced to shaking helplessness, the veins of the Professor's neck were swollen, his face was purple, he was strangled in ultimate, silent spasms of laughter. The students were shouting half-articulated words that tailed off in helpless explosions. Then suddenly the rapid patter of the artist ceased, there were little whoops of subsiding mirth, Ursula and Gudrun were wiping their eyes, and the Professor was crying loudly.
`Das war ausgezeichnet, das war famos --'
`Wirklich famos,' echoed his exhausted daughters, faintly.
`And we couldn't understand it,' cried Ursula.
`Oh leider, leider!' cried the Professor.
`You couldn't understand it?' cried the Students, let loose at last in speech with the newcomers. `Ja, das ist wirklich schade, das ist schade, gnadige Frau. Wissen Sie --'
The mixture was made, the newcomers were stirred into the party, like new ingredients, the whole room was alive. Gerald was in his element, he talked freely and excitedly, his face glistened with a strange amusement. Perhaps even Birkin, in the end, would break forth. He was shy and withheld, though full of attention.
Ursula was prevailed upon to sing `Annie Lowrie,' as the Professor called it. There was a hush of extreme deference. She had never been so flattered in her life. Gudrun accompanied her on the piano, playing from memory.
Ursula had a beautiful ringing voice, but usually no confidence, she spoiled everything. This evening she felt conceited and untrammelled. Birkin was well in the background, she shone almost in reaction, the Germans made her feel fine and infallible, she was liberated into overweening self-confidence. She felt like a bird flying in the air, as her voice soared out, enjoying herself extremely in the balance and flight of the song, like the motion of a bird's wings that is up in the wind, sliding and playing on the air, she played with sentimentality, supported by rapturous attention. She was very happy, singing that song by herself, full of a conceit of emotion and power, working upon all those people, and upon herself, exerting herself with gratification, giving immeasurable gratification to the Germans.
At the end, the Germans were all touched with admiring, delicious melancholy, they praised her in soft, reverent voices, they could not say too much.
`Wie schon, wie ruhrend! Ach, die Schottischen Lieder, sie haben so viel Stimmung! Aber die gnadige Frau hat eine wunderbare Stimme; die gnadige Frau ist wirklich eine Kunstlerin, aber wirklich!'
She was dilated and brilliant, like a flower in the morning sun. She felt Birkin looking at her, as if he were jealous of her, and her breasts thrilled, her veins were all golden. She was as happy as the sun that has just opened above clouds. And everybody seemed so admiring and radiant, it was perfect.
After dinner she wanted to go out for a minute, to look at the world. The company tried to dissuade her -- it was so terribly cold. But just to look, she said.
They all four wrapped up warmly, and found themselves in a vague, unsubstantial outdoors of dim snow and ghosts of an upper-world, that made strange shadows before the stars. It was indeed cold, bruisingly, frighteningly, unnaturally cold. Ursula could not believe the air in her nostrils. It seemed conscious, malevolent, purposive in its intense murderous coldness.
Yet it was wonderful, an intoxication, a silence of dim, unrealised snow, of the invisible intervening between her and the visible, between her and the flashing stars. She could see Orion sloping up. How wonderful he was, wonderful enough to make one cry aloud.
And all around was this cradle of snow, and there was firm snow underfoot, that struck with heavy cold through her boot-soles. It was night, and silence. She imagined she could hear the stars. She imagined distinctly she could hear the celestial, musical motion of the stars, quite near at hand. She seemed like a bird flying amongst their harmonious motion.
And she clung close to Birkin. Suddenly she realised she did not know what he was thinking. She did not know where he was ranging.
`My love!' she said, stopping to look at him.
His face was pale, his eyes dark, there was a faint spark of starlight on them. And he saw her face soft and upturned to him, very near. He kissed her softly.
`What then?' he asked.
`Do you love me?' she asked.
`Too much,' he answered quietly.
She clung a little closer.
`Not too much,' she pleaded.
`Far too much,' he said, almost sadly.
`And does it make you sad, that I am everything to you?' she asked, wistful. He held her close to him, kissing her, and saying, scarcely audible:
`No, but I feel like a beggar -- I feel poor.'
She was silent, looking at the stars now. Then she kissed him.
`Don't be a beggar,' she pleaded, wistfully. `It isn't ignominious that you love me.'
`It is ignominious to feel poor, isn't it?' he replied.
`Why? Why should it be?' she asked. He only stood still, in the terribly cold air that moved invisibly over the mountain tops, folding her round with his arms.

她去看望她的父母。这是一个相当僵硬,悲伤的会议,更像是一个验证的独立性比团聚。但他们都含糊和无限期彼此的命运,他们除了感动,加筋。
她并没有真的来了,直到她从多佛尔到奥斯坦德的大船渡。她隐约已经回落到伦敦的Birkin,伦敦一直是含糊不清的,所以不得不多佛尔的火车旅程。这是所有像睡眠。
而现在,在最后,当她站在船尾的船舶,在一个伸手不见五指,而吹风的夜晚,感受大海的运动,看着小,而荒凉的小灯闪烁着对英格兰海岸,无处岸边,看着他们那颗小的深刻和生活的黑暗,她觉得她的惊心动魄其麻醉睡眠清醒。
`让我们向前走,好吗?“ 伯金说。他想成为其投影的尖端。于是他们离开望着微弱的火花,一闪一闪地从无到有,在远的距离,称为英格兰,,深不可测晚上在前面,并把他们的脸。
他们去正确的轻轻切入容器的弓。完整的默默无闻,BIRKIN发现一个比较避风的角落,在一个伟大的绳子盘绕起来。这是相当接近附近的黑船,中极穴,未穿孔未来空间。他们在那里坐了下来,折叠起来,折叠轮相同的地毯,匍匐接近以往任何时候都更接近彼此,直到它似乎他们蹑手蹑脚到对方,并成为一种物质。这是非常寒冷,黑暗之情溢于言表。
船舶的船员来到沿甲板,黑暗中,黑暗中,没有真正可见。然后,他们做出来的微弱他的脸苍白。他感到他们的存在,并停了下来,不确定的 - 然后向前弯曲。当他的脸在他们附近,他看到了他们脸上的淡淡的苍白。然后,他像一个幻影退出。他们看着他没有发出任何声音。
他们似乎落进了深刻的黑暗。有没有天空,没有地球,只有一个完整的黑暗,进入其中,用柔​​软的睡眠运动,他们似乎像秋天一个封闭的生命种子,通过黑暗,深不可测的空间下降。
他们已经忘记了他们在那里,忘记了一切,这是和所有已经意识到,只有在他们的心里,并有意识的,只有这种纯粹通过超越黑暗轨迹。船头劈开,用微弱的声音裂解成完整的夜晚,不知道,没有看到,只涌动。
乌苏拉未来感未变现世界战​​胜一切。在这种深刻的黑暗之中,似乎焕发她的心的灿烂的天堂未知及未变现。她的心里充满最美妙的光,金色的蜂蜜一样的黑暗,甜似一天,一个温暖的光,这是不是世界上脱落,只有未知的天堂朝她要去一个甜头的居住,一个喜悦的生活相当陌生,但她绝对无误。在她的交通工具,她抬起她的脸突然给他,他摸到了他的嘴唇。那么冷,那么新鲜,所以海清除她的脸,就好像接吻朵花,附近的冲浪。
但他不知道前知识,她知道幸福的狂喜。对他来说,这段过境的奇迹是压倒性的。他掉下来的无限黑暗的鸿沟,整个世界之间的鸿沟像陨石飞泻。世界被撕成了两半,他是通过不可言喻的裂痕像熄灭星级暴跌。什么是超越还没有他。他轨迹克服。
在恍惚中,他躺在捂着乌苏拉四围。他的脸,对她的细腻,脆弱的头发,他的呼吸它的香味与大海和深刻的夜晚。他的灵魂在和平屈服了,他陷入未知。这是第一次,彻底的和绝对的和平已进入了他的心,现在,在这最后的生活过境。
当出现了一些轰动的甲板上,他们惊醒。他们站了起来。如何僵硬和局促,在夜间时!然而,在她的心里,天堂般的光芒在他的黑暗和难言的和平,这是所有的所有。
他们站了起来,看着前方。被视为低灯的黑暗。这是世界一次。这是不是她心里的幸福,也不是他的和平。事实上这是肤浅的不真实的世界。然而,不太旧世界。的和平与幸福在他们的心中经久不衰。
怪了,荒凉的上述所有的东西一样,下船从冥河进入荒凉的黑社会,这在夜间降落。有原料,半点燃,覆盖在广袤的黑暗的地方,登上和空心脚下,只有荒凉,随处可见。乌苏拉瞧见大的,苍白的,神秘的字母`奥斯坦德,站立在黑暗中。每个人都行色匆匆深灰色空气通过一个盲目的,像昆虫一样的专心,搬运工呼吁在未英语,然后小跑着与沉重的书包,其无色上衣看着他们消失鬼魅;乌苏拉站在一个长期的,低锌覆盖屏障,以及数以百计的其他光谱的人,所有的广阔,原料黑暗的一路下跌是这样低的伸展开袋和光谱的人,同时,在另一侧的阻隔,苍白官员鸭舌帽和胡须把内衣袋,然后涂划粉笔标记。
有人做过。Birkin的抢购手包,他们就出发了,看门的背后。他们通过大门口,并在重新开放夜 - 啊,铁路平台!声音仍然幽灵调用在不人道的鼓动通过暗灰色的空气,沿着黑暗之间的火车运行。
`靠隆尼 - 柏林 - 厄休拉“上板挂在一侧的高速列车运行。
'我们在这里,“伯金说。在她的身边,她看到:`阿尔萨斯 - Lothringen地区 - 卢森堡,梅斯 - 巴塞尔。
`那是,巴塞尔!
看门人走了过来。
`A罢了 - DEUXIEME CLASSE? - 瞧!他爬进高速列车运行。他们跟在后面。车厢已经被他们中的一些措施。但是,许多人暗淡空。看门的行李存放,被放倒。
`常识艾芬达的安可 - ?伯金说,看着他的手表,和看门的。
`喝采UNE半幅HEURE的。,在他的蓝色上衣,他就消失了。他丑陋和张狂。
`来,“伯金说。`这是冷的。让我们吃。“
平台上有一个咖啡旅行车。他们喝了,水汪汪的大热咖啡,吃卷,分割,火腿之间,这样一个广泛的,它几乎咬Ursula的下巴脱臼;他们身旁走过高的列车。这一切都是如此陌生,所以极其荒凉,像黑社会,灰色,灰色,灰色的污垢,荒凉,孤独,无处 - 灰色,沉闷无处。
最后,他们经过一夜。在黑暗中,乌苏拉平板领域,湿平沉闷黑暗的大陆。他们拉升出奇的快 - 布鲁日!然后在通过水平的黑暗,隐约可见睡眠农场和薄杨树和冷清highroads的。她坐在惊惶,手与手的Birkin。他脸色苍白,像亡灵自己不动,有时看着窗外,有时闭上了眼睛。然后,他再次睁开眼睛,外面的黑暗的黑暗。
几个灯在黑暗中一闪而过 - 根特站!几个幽灵外面的平台上 - 钟 - 运动再通过水平的黑暗。乌苏拉看见一名男子提着灯走出农场,铁路,穿越黑暗农场建筑。她想到的沼泽,老,亲密的农场生活Cossethay。我的上帝,她预计,从她的童年多远,走多远,她还是去了!在一个生命的一次穿越劫。内存从她的童年是在亲切的乡村环境的Cossethay和草滩农场的巨大鸿沟 - 她想起了仆人蒂利,谁给她的面包和奶油,撒上红糖,在老的客厅里的祖父时钟以上的数字在脸上涂在一个篮子里,有两个粉红色的玫瑰 - 现在,当她行驶到未知的Birkin,一个彻头彻尾的陌生人 - 是如此之大,似乎她没有身份证的孩子,她有一直玩在Cossethay境内,是一个历史的小家伙,不是真的自己。
他们在布鲁塞尔 - 半小时的早餐。他们得到了下来。在大钟说六时。在广袤的沙漠茶点室,他们的咖啡和面包卷和蜂蜜,如此沉闷,总是那么沉闷,肮脏的,所以宽敞,这种苍凉的空间。但她用她的脸和手在热水里,梳理她的头发 - 这是一个祝福。
不久,他们再次在火车和移动。黎明开始greyness。有几个人在车厢里,大花语比利时业务长长的棕色胡须的男人,一个丑陋的法国人唠叨她太累了遵循。
它似乎火车跑成微弱的光线的黑暗度,然后打节拍后的每一天。啊,这是多么疲倦!依稀,树木表明,像阴影。随后的房子,白色,有一个奇怪的特异性。怎么样?然后,她看到了一个村庄 - 有房子总是通过。
这是一个旧世界,她还在痴痴地通过,冬季的沉重和沉闷。有犁土地和草场,灌木丛光秃秃的树木,灌木,灌木丛和宅裸体和裸工作。没有新的地球已经应验。
她看着Birkin的脸。它仍然是白色的,永恒的,太永恒。她与她的手指在他的哀求下,她的地毯盖。回应他的手指,他的眼睛望着她。如何黑暗,想了一晚上,他的眼睛,就像另一个世界的超越!呵呵,如果他的世界,如果世界是他!如果只有他可以称之为世界应运而生,这应该是他们自己的世界!
比利时人离开,火车跑,通过卢森堡,通过阿尔萨斯 - 洛林,通过梅斯。但她是个瞎子,她实在看不出更多。她的灵魂没有看出来了。
在去年的巴塞尔,他们来到酒店。这完全是一个漂流精神恍惚,她从来没有来到。他们在早上出门之前,火车离去。她看到街道,河流,她站在桥上。但是这一切都意味着什么。她想起一些商店 - 一个完整的图片,一个橙色天鹅绒貂皮。但这些意味着什么? - 一无所获。
她不放心,直到他们再次在火车。然后,她才松了口气。只要他们动起,她很满意。他们来到苏黎世,那么,之前很长,跑山,下深的积雪。最后,她花前月下。这是另一个世界。
因斯布鲁克是美好的,深的积雪,和晚上。他们开车在一个开放的雪橇在雪:列车已经这么热,令人窒息。和酒店,在门廊下泛着金色的光芒,看起来像一个家。
他们高兴地笑了,当他们在大厅里。地方似乎充满又忙碌。
“你知道,如果先生和夫人克里奇 - 英语 - 来自巴黎,已经来了吗?” Birkin的德语问。
搬运工反映了一会儿,正要回答时,乌苏拉戈珍下楼闲逛,看见她穿着黑色光泽的大衣,灰色毛皮。
“戈珍!戈珍!“ 她叫,挥舞着的楼梯井。`Shuhu!
戈珍看着导轨上,并立即失去了她的闲逛,心虚的空气。她的眼睛里闪过。
`真的 - 厄休拉!“ 她哭着说。她开始移动楼下乌苏拉跑上。他们会见了在转弯和亲吻的口齿不清和搅拌笑声与惊叹声。
“可是!戈珍哭了,羞愧。`我们认为这是明天你要来!我就想来车站。“
“不,我们已经走到了今天!” 厄秀拉叫道。`是不是很可爱!“
“可爱!” 戈珍说。杰拉德刚出去,得到的东西。厄休拉,不是你害怕累吗?“
“不,不是那么很。但我期待一个肮脏的景象,不要我!“
“不,你不这样做。你几乎完全新鲜的。我喜欢那顶毛皮帽极大!“ 她瞥了一眼乌苏拉,谁穿深,软,金发碧眼的毛皮领子柔软的大外套,柔软的金发碧眼的毛皮帽。
“”你!“ 厄秀拉叫道。`你以为你是什么样子!“
戈珍假设一个无动于衷,面无表情的脸。
“你喜欢吗?” 她说。
`这是非常正常的!“ 厄秀拉叫道,也许淡淡的讽刺。
` - 或降下来,“伯金说。对于那里的姐妹们站在戈珍Ursula的手臂她的手,在楼梯一半的方式首次登陆反过来,阻塞的方式和整个下面的大厅,得到充分的娱乐,从丰满的犹太人门搬运工在黑色衣服。
两名年轻妇女慢慢装,其次是Birkin和服务员。
`一楼?“ 戈珍在她的肩膀,回头问道。
`第二女士 - 电梯!“ 服务员回答。他飞奔到电梯,以防止这两个女人。但是,他们忽略了他,因为没有听从,热热闹闹,他们安装的第二次飞行。颇为懊恼,服务员紧随其后。
很好奇,在对方的姐妹们,在这次会议上的喜悦。如果他们遇见了在流亡,团结孤对世界上所有的力量。Birkin的脸上有一些不信任和奇迹。
当他们洗澡和改变,杰拉德走了进来,他看上去像闪耀的太阳霜。
`去与杰拉德和烟雾,“厄秀拉说Birkin的。戈珍和我想谈谈。“
然后姐妹们坐在戈珍的卧室,并谈到了衣服,和经验。戈珍告诉乌苏拉的Birkin信在网吧的经验。乌苏拉感到震惊和害怕。
`信?“ “她问道。”
`我一直是,“戈珍说。”
`你给我的,不是吗?“ 她说。
但戈珍沉默了一会儿,然后她回答:
你真的想,乌苏拉?
`我想读它,“乌苏拉说。”
“”当然,“戈珍说。”
即使是现在,她不能承认,乌苏拉说,她想保持它,作为纪念,或者一个符号。但是乌苏拉知道,并且很不高兴。因此,主体已关机。
`你做了什么在巴黎吗?“ 问乌苏拉。
“哦,”戈珍说简洁 - `平常的事情。我们有一个细方一晚的范妮·巴斯的工作室。“
`你吗?你和杰拉德在那里!还有谁?告诉我吧。“
“嗯,”戈珍说。“ `有没有什么特别要告诉。你知道芬妮是可怕的爱与画家,比利·麦克法兰。他在那里 - 范妮什么也没有幸免,她花了很自由。这真是了不起!当然,大家都害怕了醉了 - 但在一个有趣的方式,不喜欢那个肮脏的伦敦人群。事实是,这些都是所有的人说事,这使所有的差异。有一个Roumanian,罚款第一章。他得到了完全喝醉了,爬到高工作室阶梯的顶部,并给了最奇妙的地址 - 真的,乌苏拉,它是美好的!他开始在法国 - LA VIE,就是UNE AFFAIRE艾姆斯imperiales的 - 在一个最美丽的声音 - 他是一个美貌的第一章 - 但他钻进Roumanian之前,他已经完成了,而不是一个灵魂的理解。但唐纳德·吉尔克里斯特工作的狂热。他飞跑着他的玻璃地面,并宣布,由神,他很高兴他已经诞生,上帝,这是一个奇迹,是活着的。你知道吗,乌苏拉,所以它是 - “戈珍笑了,而空洞。
`但如何杰拉尔德其中?问乌苏拉。
“杰拉德!哦,我的话,他出来在阳光下像蒲公英!他在自己的农神节是一个整体,一旦他被惊醒。我不喜欢说的腰部,他的手臂并没有去圆。真的,乌苏拉,他似乎像一个收获收获妇女。有没有一个会抵制他。这太惊人了!你能理解吗?“
“乌苏拉反映,和,跳舞灯走进她的眼睛。
是的,“她说。`我可以。他就是这样一个全碎木。
`碎木全!我觉得应该是这样的!“ “戈珍惊呼。“但是这是真的,乌苏拉,每个女人都在房间里给他准备投降。殿堂是不是在它 - 甚至范妮巴斯,谁是真正的爱与比利·麦克法兰!我从来没有在我的生活更惊讶!而且你知道,后来 - 我觉得我是一个整个屋子的妇女。我是自己没有给他,比我是维多利亚女王。我是一个妇女在整个屋子。这是最令人震惊的!但我的眼睛,我抓到了苏丹,时间 -
戈珍的眼中闪烁时,她的脸是热的,她看着陌生的,充​​满异国情调,讽刺。乌苏拉一次着迷 - 尚未不安的。
他们不得不准备吃晚饭。戈珍来到了一个大胆生动的绿色丝绸礼服和组织黄金,绿色天鹅绒胸衣和一个奇怪的黑色和白色带圆她的头发。她真的很出色的美丽,每个人都注意到了她。杰拉尔德是,全血,闪闪发光的状态时,他是最英俊的。Birkin的看着他们,乌苏拉相当快,笑,眼睛半险恶失去了她的头。似乎有一个魔咒,几乎是一个眩目的法术,施放圆他们的桌子,仿佛被点燃了更强烈的比剩下的餐室。
`难道你不爱在这个地方吗?“ 戈珍哭了。`是不是雪精彩!你有没有注意到它是如何高举一切吗?这简直是​​奇妙的。人们确实感到iibermenschlich - 超过人类。“
`,“厄秀拉叫道。`但是,部分被淘汰的英格兰吗?'
“哦,当然,”戈珍哭。`不可能像这样在英格兰的感觉,原因很简单,阻尼器从未升空一,有。在英国,这是很不可能真正放手,我很放心。“
她又转向她正在吃的食物。她飘飘与生动的强度。
`这是相当正确的,“杰拉德说,”它永远不会是完全一样的英格兰。但或许我们不希望它是 - 也许它就像把光线有点太附近的粉末杂志,完全放手,在英格兰。一是害怕会发生什么事情,如果大家都放手。
`我的上帝!“ 戈珍哭了。`但不会是美好的,如果所有的英格兰却突然熄灭像燃放烟火。“
`不能“乌苏拉说。” `他们都是太潮湿,潮湿粉末在其中。“
`我不那么肯定,“杰拉尔德说。
`我也不清楚,“伯金说。当真正开始熄灭,集体,它会闭上你的耳朵和运行时间。
'他们永远不会“乌苏拉说。”
“我们所看到的,”他回答说。“
`是不是很奇妙,“戈珍说,',多么感激就可以了,要出一个人的国家。我简直不敢相信我自己,我运输,那一刻我踏上外国岸边。我对自己说,“这里几步之融入生活的一个新的生物。”
`不要太硬,说:“可怜的老英格兰杰拉德。`虽然我们诅咒它,我们喜欢它,真的。“
乌苏拉,这些话似乎有一个基金的冷嘲热讽。
`我们,“伯金说。`但它是一个卑鄙不舒服的爱:像爱一个年老的父母患有可怕的疾病,并发症,是没有希望的。“
戈珍看着他的黑眼睛扩张。
你认为是没有希望了吗?“ 她问,在她的时尚相关。
但Birkin的退堂鼓。他不会回答这样的问题。
`任何英格兰成为真正的希望吗?天晓得。这是一个伟大的实际不真实,聚集成虚幻。它可能是真实的,如果没有英国人。“
你认为英语会消失吗?“ 戈珍坚持。这很奇怪,她指出在他的答案的兴趣。这可能是她自己的命运,她询问后。她暗,瞳孔散目光落在Birkin的,仿佛她可以召唤未来的真相,他占卜的一些仪器。
他面色苍白。然后,恋恋不舍,他回答说:
“嗯 - 还有什么是在他们面前,但消失?他们从自己的特殊的英国品牌已经消失了,进不去。“
戈珍看着他,仿佛在催眠状态中,她的眼睛睁得大大的,他固定。
`但以什么样的方式,你的意思是,消失了? - “她坚持着。
“是的,你的意思改变的心?” 把杰拉尔德。
`我不意味着什么,我为什么要?“ 伯金说。`我是英国人,我已经付出了代价的。我不能谈论英格兰 - 我只能说我自己。“
是的,“说,戈珍慢慢地,你爱英格兰巨大,巨大,鲁珀特。
“离开她,”他回答说。
“不,不为好。你会回来的,“杰拉德说,一本正经地点头。
“”他们说的虱子爬一个垂死的身体,“伯金说,一个刺眼的苦涩。“”所以,我离开英国。“
“啊,但你会回来的,”戈珍说,一个嘲讽的笑容。
桑特活塞倒内政部,“他回答说。”
`他是不是生气与他的祖国!“ 杰拉德笑着说,逗乐了。
“嗯,一个爱国者!” 戈珍说,像冷笑。
Birkin的拒绝回答任何。
戈珍看了他几秒钟。然后,她转身走了。完成后,他占卜她的法术。她觉得自己已经纯粹的玩世不恭。她看着杰拉德。他是美妙的镭她像一块。她觉得她可以消耗自己都知道,通过这种致命的,活生生的金属。她微笑着对自己在她的想象。她做什么会自己摧毁了,当她自己吗?如果精神,如果整体被破坏,物质是坚不可摧的。
他一直在寻找光明的,抽象的,困惑的时刻。她伸出她那美丽的手臂,其绒毛绿色薄纱,她的含蓄,艺术家的手指摸了摸下巴。
`它们是什么呢?“ 她问,一个陌生的,会心的微笑。
“”什么?“ 他回答说,他的眼睛突然扩张的奇迹。
“你的想法。”
杰拉德看着就像一个人清醒。
“我觉得我身上没有,”他说。
“真的!” 她说,与严重的笑声在她的声音。
的Birkin仿佛她杀了杰拉德,与触摸。
“啊,但是,”戈珍哭了,让我们喝大不列颠 - 让我们喝大不列颠。“
似乎野生绝望中她的声音。杰拉德笑了,充满了眼镜。
`我认为鲁珀特表示,“他说,”全国所有的英国人一定会死,使他们能够单独存在 - '
`超级国家 - “戈珍,有轻微的具有讽刺意味的​​鬼脸,提高她的玻璃。
第二天,他们在微小的火车站Hohenhausen的下降,在年底的小山谷铁路。这是到处都是雪,雪白色,完美的摇篮,新的和冷冻的,扫地的一左一右,黑色的峭壁,银白色扫描对蓝色苍白的天空。
当他们走出赤裸裸的平台上,只有雪的周围和上面,戈珍萎缩的,就好像它冷冻了她的心脏。
`我的上帝,杰里,“她说,转向杰拉德突然亲密,你已经这样做了。”
“”什么?“
她做了一个淡淡的姿态,表明世界上任何一只手。
`看看吧!“
她似乎害怕去。他笑了。
他们在山上的心脏。从高高在上,对任何一方,扫倒雪白色倍,所以,一个似乎小和微小的纯混凝土天堂的一个山谷中,所有奇怪的辐射和不变的沉默。
“这让人感到那么渺小和孤独,”厄秀拉说,把Birkin和奠定她的手放在他的胳膊。
“”你没有对不起你来,是你吗?“ 杰拉尔德·戈珍说。
她看着呆账。他们走出银行的雪站之间。
`啊,“杰拉德说,嗅着空气中的兴高采烈,这是完美的。这就是我们的雪橇。我们会走位 - 我们运行了道路。“
在爬犁上,戈珍总是怀疑,下跌了她厚重的大衣,他做了他,他们掀起。突然,她把她的头和刮面沿道路积雪掀起了她的耳朵,她的帽子拉下来。她的蓝色,明亮的衣服在风中飘扬,她厚厚的猩红色丝袜辉煌以上的白度。杰拉德看着她,她似乎被冲到了她的命运,并留下他的背后。他让她一段距离,然后,松开他的四肢,他去后,她的。
到处都是雪深和沉默。大的雪檐拖累的Tyrolese广泛屋顶的房子,被击沉窗扇的窗口中雪。全裙边,农民,妇女,穿着每一个交叉的披肩,和厚厚的雪地靴,转身看软,确定女孩的人,谁是超越了她沉重的快速运行的方式,但不在她获得任何权力。
他们通过客栈画百叶窗和阳台,有几个小屋,半埋在雪地里,然后被雪埋无声锯木厂屋顶的桥,越过隐流,对他们跑进非常深入不变张雪。这是一个沉默,一个纯粹的白,令人振奋的疯狂。但完美的沉默是最可怕的,隔离的灵魂,心脏周围的空气冷冻。
“”这是一个奇妙的地方,对于这一切,“戈珍说,看着他的眼睛,意思是一个奇怪的看看。他的灵魂升腾。
`好,“他说。
一场激烈的电能似乎流过他的四肢被征收附加费,他的肌肉,他的手觉得很难有实力。他们迅速地沿着雪路,被打上了树木的枯枝每隔卡住。他和她分开,像一个激烈的能源两极。但他们觉得足够强大的跨越生命的局限进入禁地的地方,然后再返回。
Birkin和乌苏拉运行,在雪地里。他出售的行李,他们有一个小雪橇开始。厄休拉是激动和高兴,但她不停地转动,突然来抓住的Birkin的手臂,确保他。
`这是我从来没有想到的东西,“她说。`这是一个不同的世界,在这里。“
他们去到雪草甸。在那里,他们被追上爬犁,传来叮叮当当的沉默。这是前一英里后,他们来到戈珍和杰拉德在陡峭的向上攀登,旁边的粉红色,半埋的神社。
然后,他们通过到一个深沟,在那里有黑色的岩石和河流堆满了雪,仍然蓝天之上的墙壁。通过有盖桥,他们去,击鼓板大致在,翻越白雪床,一次,然后慢慢涨涨,马匹行走迅速,司机打击他,因为他身旁走过长长的鞭子,并呼吁他的野怪的色调色调,石壁缓缓掠过,直到他们再次出现斜坡和群众之间的雪。最多,他们逐渐去,通过寒影四射的下午,沉默的紧迫山,发光,夺目双方升逾雪下跌了下方。
他们出来,最后在一个小高桌土地的雪,站在山峰的雪像一个开放的玫瑰花瓣的心脏。在天上的最后荒芜的山谷中间站着一个孤独的棕色木制的墙壁和白色沉重的屋顶建设,浪费雪深,冷清,像一个梦。它站在那儿,就象从陡峭的山坡上,采取的形式的房子的岩石滚落下来的岩石,现在是半埋。这简直令人难以置信,人们可以生活在那里未经压碎的沉默和白度和清晰,上,振铃冷的这一切可怕的浪费。
但跑起来的优良作风的雪橇,人们来到门口笑和兴奋,宿舍楼响起空心的,的段落是湿的雪,这是一个真正的,温暖的室内。
新加入践踏了裸木楼梯,继服的女人。戈珍和杰拉德了第一间卧室。在某一时刻,他们发现自己独自一人在一个光秃秃的,小巧的,靠近关房间,这是所有的金色木材,地板,墙壁,天花板,门,所有相同的暖金色镶板的油松树。门对面有一个窗口,但低下来,因为屋顶倾斜。天花板的斜坡下表洗手碗和壶,跨越,与另一个表镜。对任何一方两张床堆满了一个巨大的蓝色检查overbolster,巨大的门。
这是 - 没有柜子里,没有生活设施。在这里,他们被关起来金色木材在这个小区,与两个蓝色检查床。他们互相看了一眼,笑了起来,吓坏了这种赤裸裸的亲近隔离。
一名男子撞倒,并与行李走了进来。他是一个坚固的老乡持平颧骨,而苍白,与粗公平小胡子。戈珍看着他放下袋子,在沉默中,然后出巨资流浪汉。
`这是不是太粗糙,是吗?“ 杰拉尔德问。
卧室是不是很热情,和她微微颤抖。
`这是美妙的,“她含糊其辞。`看的颜色,这镶板它的美妙,就像置身一个螺母。
他注视着她,感觉他短切小胡子,稍微靠在椅背上,并与他敏锐的,大无畏的眼睛看着她,不变的激情为主,像他的厄运后。
她去的窗口前,蹲了下来,好奇。
`呵呵,不过这一点 - !“ 她不由自主地哭了,几乎是在痛苦中。
在前面关在一个山谷的天空下,最后的积雪和黑色的岩石,巨大的斜坡,并在年底像肚脐的大地,白色折叠墙,在后期的灯光下闪闪发光的两峰。直在前面跑雪无声的摇篮,伟大的斜坡之间一点点粗糙的松树树,流苏,像头发,圆基地。但雪的摇篮跑永恒收盘,雪和岩石墙壁坚不可摧的上涨,以上的山峰,立即在天上。这是中心,打结,世界的肚脐,属于地球的天空,纯净的,难以接近的,不可逾越的。
戈珍充满了一个奇怪的狂喜。她蹲在窗前,握紧她的脸在她的手中,在迷迷糊糊的。最后她到达了,她已经达到了她的位置。在这里,最后她折了她的创业安家像肚脐雪晶体,就消失了。
杰拉尔德弯曲她的上面,并期待在她的肩膀。他已经感觉到,他独自一人。她已经走了。她完全消失了,冰冷的蒸气搂住他的心。他看到了伟大的小路囊雪和山峰,盲谷,天上下。是没有出路的。可怕的寂静与寒冷和迷人的白度黄昏他裹圆,她依然蹲在窗口前,在一个祠堂,一个黑影。
“你喜欢吗?” 他问,在一个分离和外国的声音响起。至少她会承认他是她。但她只是避免她的柔软,静音的脸从他的目光一点点。他知道有泪水在她的眼里,自己的眼泪,眼泪她奇怪的宗教,使他前功尽弃。
突然,他把他的手在她的下巴,他抬起她的脸。她深蓝色的眼睛,在他们的眼泪湿润,扩张,如果在她的灵魂,她吃了一惊。他们看着他通过自己的眼泪,在恐怖和有点恐怖。他淡蓝色的眼睛为激烈,小pupilled的和不自然的在他们的视野。她的嘴唇微张,因为她呼吸困难。
激情在他想出了中风,中风后,像的青铜钟响起,如此强烈,无缺陷和不屈不挠的。他的膝盖收紧铜牌,因为他上面挂着她柔软的脸,嘴唇微张,眼睛散瞳在一个陌生的违规行为。在抓他的手,她的下巴是说不出的柔软,丝绸。他随着冬季震感强烈,他的双手被居住金属,立于不败之地,而不是被搁置。他的心他里面像铃叮当响了起来。
他带着她在他的怀里。她柔软和惰性,一动不动。所有的扩张,而她的眼睛,眼泪还没有干燥,如果在一种迷恋和无助的昏厥。他是superhumanly强,无缺陷的,如果投资与超自然的力量。
他抬起她的亲密,她对他和折叠。她的柔软,她的惰性重量,轻松躺在对他自己的一个沉重的可取性,会破坏他的附加费征收,青铜般的四肢,如果他没有履行。“她痉挛移动,反冲离他而去。他的心里去了冰像火焰,他收了她的如钢。他会毁了她,而不是被拒绝。
但唯我独尊的权力,他的身体是她太多。她再次放松,躺在松软,气喘吁吁在一个小谵妄。给他,她是那么的甜美,她是这样幸福的释放,他会遭受酷刑,而不是放弃一秒的这一阵无法超越的幸福着整个永恒。
“”我的上帝,“他说给她,他的脸上画和奇怪,变形,下一步是什么?”
她躺在完全静止,静止,孩子般的脸,漆黑的眼睛,看着他。她丢了,马上下降。
“我将永远爱你,”他说,看着她。
但她没有听到。她躺在那儿,看着他,她可能永远也不会明白,从来没有的东西:作为一个孩子看着长大了的人,不希望理解,只有提交。
他吻她,吻她的眼睛闭上,这样她就可以不看任何。他现在想要的东西,有些承认,一些迹象,一些入场。但她只是静静地躺着,孩子般的和远程的,就像一个孩子克服和无法理解的,只感觉丧失。他再次亲吻了她,放弃。
“我们应走下来,有咖啡和库亨?他问道。
黄昏下降石板蓝色窗口。她闭上了眼睛,收走了单调死难怪水平,并再次打开他们的每一天世界。
是的,“她简单地说,恢复她的意志的点击。她再次去到窗口。晚上蓝雪的摇篮,已经下跌了伟大的苍白斜坡。但是在天堂峰雪红润,晶莹像超然,辐射开花高峰在天上的世界上,如此可爱和超越。
戈珍看到他们所有的可爱,她知道他们是多么不朽的美丽,伟大的雌蕊蓝色黄昏的天堂玫瑰色,雪美联储火灾。她能看到它,她知道,但她不是。她离婚了,取消资格,灵魂拒之门外。
随着一上一下的悔恨,她转过头去,和正在做她的头发。他unstrapped的行李,等待,看着她。她知道他在注视着她。这让她有点草率和狂热在她的沉淀。
他们跑到楼下,与其他一个陌生的世界看看他们的脸,在他们眼里辉光。他们看到Birkin和乌苏拉坐在长条桌的一个角落里,等待他们的。
`他们一起来看一下如何好和简单,“戈珍认为,嫉妒。她羡慕他们一些自发性,幼稚的自给自足她自己永远无法接近。他们似乎这样的孩子给她。
`这样的好的Kranzkuchen!' 厄秀拉叫道贪婪。`那么好!“
`,“戈珍说。” “我们能有咖啡厅,麻省理工学院”Kranzkuchen“?她补充说,服务员。
她坐在自己旁边杰拉德在板凳上。的Birkin,看着他们,为他们感到了疼痛,压痛。
`我觉得这个地方真的很美妙,杰拉德,“他说,`prachtvoll和犀利wunderschon和unbeschreiblich的和所有其他德国的形容词。”
杰拉德突入微微一笑。
“我喜欢它,”他说。
表,白色的洗涤过的木材,放置圆形房间的三面,在一个的Gasthaus。Birkin和乌苏拉坐在他们的背上在墙上,这是上油的木材,和杰拉德和戈珍明年他们坐在角落里,靠近炉子。这是一个相当大的地方,一个小酒吧,就像一个乡村旅馆,但很简单,裸,上油的木材,天花板和墙壁和地板,唯一的家具是兜兜三面的桌子和长凳伟大的绿色灶具,和第四侧栏和门。窗户是双层的,相当无帘。这是傍晚。
咖啡来了 - 和良好的热 - 一整圈饼。
`A全库亨!“ 厄秀拉叫道。他们给你比我们多!我想你。“
还有其他人的地方,共有10,这样的Birkin发现:两位艺术家,三个学生,一个男人和妻子,和一个教授和两个女儿 - 德国。英语四级的人,作为新人,坐在一个多么华帝观看。德国偷看在门口,叫一个字的服务员,又去。这不是吃饭时间,所以他们没有进入这个饭厅,,但betook自己,当他们的靴子被改变,Reunionsaal。
英语游客可以偶尔听到古筝,钢琴弹奏,防抢的笑声和呼喊和歌唱,一个微弱的声音振动绷。整个建筑的木材,它似乎携带每一个声音,如鼓,但每个特定的噪音,而不是增加,减少它,使古筝的声音似乎很小,仿佛一个身材矮小的古筝演奏某处,它似乎钢琴必须是一个小的,就像一个小的尖晶石。
主机来完成咖啡。他的Tyrolese广泛,而平颊,脸色苍白,皮肤和胡须茂盛麻脸。
`你想去Reunionsaal,被介绍给其他女士们,先生们?“ 他问,向前弯腰,面带微笑,显示出他的大,坚固牙齿。他的蓝眼睛又迅速从一个到另一个与这些英语国家的人,他不太确定自己的立场。他也很不高兴,因为他不会说英语,他不能确定是否尝试他的法语。
“我们应去Reunionsaal,并介绍给其他的人呢?” 杰拉尔德反复,笑了起来。
有片刻的犹豫。
`我想我们最好 - 更好地破冰,“伯金说。
妇女上涨,而满脸通红。维特的黑色甲虫象,宽肩膀的身影又可耻在前面,对噪音。他打开门,迎来了4个陌生人进入播放室。
瞬间一片寂静,略有尴尬来到了该公司。的新人感有许多金发碧眼的面孔,看着自己的方式。然后,主机短,精力充沛的大胡子男人低头,用低沉的声音说:
教授先生,ICH DARF的vorstellen -
教授先生是迅速和充满活力的。他深鞠一躬英语的人,面带微笑,并开始同志。
的`Nehmen死TEIL Herrschaften一个unserer Unterhaltung?“ 一场轰轰烈烈的文诌诌的,他说,他的声音在卷曲的问题。
英语四级的人笑了,闲逛在中间的房间,周到的不安。杰拉德,谁是发言人表示,他们愿意在娱乐的一部分。戈珍和厄休拉,笑着,兴奋,觉得所有男人的目光在他们身上,他们抬起头,看着无处,觉得王室。
教授宣布那些目前无ceremonie的名字。有一个错误的人,并给正确的人低头。每个人都在那里,除了男人和妻子。两个高大,clearskinned,稳重的女儿的教授,纯切,深蓝色的上衣和罗登呢裙,相当长的,强的脖子,他们清澈的蓝眼睛,仔细带状头发,脸红,鞠躬,站回;三个学生鞠躬非常低的印象是极端好的育种卑下的希冀,再有就是薄,皮肤黝黑的男子全眼睛,一个奇怪的生物,就像一个孩子,和巨魔一样,快速,分离;他微微鞠了一躬,他的同伴,一个大的公平的年轻人,穿着时髦,脸涨得通红的眼睛,鞠躬非常低。
这是结束。
`杜林Loerke,让我们在科隆方言朗诵,“教授说。”
他必须原谅我们打断他,“杰拉德说,”我们应该非常喜欢听到它。“
立刻有一个鞠躬和席位发售。戈珍和厄休拉,杰拉德和Birkin坐在靠墙的沙发深处。房间里裸体上油的镶板,像其余的房子。它有一架钢琴,沙发和椅子,书籍和杂志的表和一对夫妇。在其完全没有多余的装饰,保存,蓝色的大火炉,舒适而宜人。
杜林Loerke是小个子与孩子气的数字,全面,充分,敏感的头部,快速,全面的眼睛,像一个鼠标。他迅速扫了一眼,从一个到另一个陌生人,并举行自己的孤傲。
`请与背诵,教授说,suavely,他轻微的权威。“ Loerke,弓着背坐在钢琴凳子上,眨了眨眼睛,没有回答。
“”这将是一大乐事,“厄秀拉说,已准备好句子,在德国,一些分钟。
然后,突然,小中,不能响应的人摆一边,对他以前的观众爆发出来,正是因为他打破了在控制,嘲讽的声音,给人一种模仿一个古老的科隆女人和一个铁路后卫之间的争吵。
他的身体轻微的,不成熟的,像一个男孩的,但他的声音是成熟的,嘲讽的,其运动的灵活性,重要的能源,一个嘲讽的穿透了解。戈珍无法理解一个词,他的独白,但她咒语束缚,看着他。他必须成为一个艺术家,没有其他人能有这样的微调和单一。德国增加了一倍,带着笑声,听到他滑稽的怪字,他的滑稽的方言短语。在他们的发作中,他们扫了一眼与四个英文陌生人,选民尊重。戈珍和厄休拉不得不笑。屋子里的笑声与欢呼。蓝眼睛教授的女儿的笑声泪游泳,他们清晰的脸颊通红深红色的欢乐,他们的父亲爆发出最惊人的响亮的欢闹,学生低头,他们的膝盖上多余的喜悦。乌苏拉环顾四周惊奇,笑声,她不由自主地汩汩流出。她看着戈珍。戈珍看着她,两姐妹突然大笑起来,忘乎所以。Loerke迅速瞟了一眼他们,用他的眼睛。柏金不由自主地窃笑。杰拉德·克里奇坐在直立,在他的脸上闪耀的看看娱乐。笑声再次应声而出,在野生发作,减少晃动无奈教授的女儿,教授的脖子上的静脉肿胀,他的脸是紫色的,他被勒死的笑声最终,沉​​默痉挛。学生们喊半铰接式的话,在尾随无奈爆炸。然后突然快速拍打的艺术家不再,很少有哎呦消退欢笑,Ursula和戈珍擦着自己的眼睛,和教授大声地哭了。
`达斯战争ausgezeichnet,DAS战争FAMOS -
的`Wirklich FAMOS,“呼应他的疲惫的女儿,依稀。
我们无法理解它,“厄秀拉叫道。
哦`leider leider!教授叫道。
你可能不明白吗?“ 哭的同学们,让松在最后的讲话与新人。`JA DAS IST DAS IST wirklich沙德,沙德,gnadige弗劳。WISSEN SIE -
混合物,搅拌到党内新人,像新的成分,整个房间还活着。杰拉德在他的元素,他谈到自由和兴奋,他的脸上闪烁着一种奇怪的游乐。也许甚至Birkin的,在年底,将打破等等。他很害羞,隐瞒,虽然充满了关注。
乌苏拉说服唱`安妮劳里,“教授把它称为。有一个嘘的极端尊重。她从来没有在她的生活一直如此受宠若惊。戈珍陪同她在钢琴上,从内存中播放。
乌苏拉有一个美丽的振铃声音,但通常没有信心,她宠坏了一切。这个晚上,她感到自负,不受束缚。的Birkin的背景下,她几乎照反应,德国人让她觉得罚款和万无一失,她解放到唯我独尊的自信。她觉得自己像鸟一样在空中飞来飞去,为她的声音飙出来,享受自己非常的平衡和飞行的歌曲,像鸟的翅膀起来在风中运动,滑动和打空气,她演奏与多愁善感,由欢天喜地注意支持。她高兴极了,由她自己唱的那首歌,充满情感和权力的自负,工作后,所有的人,并呼吁自己,发挥自己的满足感,给德国不可估量满足。
在结束时,德国人都慕名而来,美味的惆怅与感动,他们称赞她在柔软的,虔诚的声音,他们不能说太多。
`魏某舍恩魏某ruhrend!唉,模具Schottischen艺术歌曲,SIE它们所以维斯Stimmung的的!阿伯模具gnadige弗劳的帽子EINE wunderbare之声;模具gnadige弗劳IST wirklich EINE Kunstlerin,阿伯wirklich!'
她是扩张和辉煌,在早晨的阳光像花一样。她感到Birkin的看着她,仿佛他是嫉妒她,激动和她的乳房,她的血管都是金色的。她很高兴,因为云层之上的太阳刚刚开业。,每个人都显得那么的欣赏和辐射,它是完美的。
晚饭后,她想出去一分钟,看世界。该公司试图劝阻她 - 它是如此冷得要命。但只是为了看看,她说。
他们所有四个包裹起来热烈,发现自己在一个模糊的,薄弱的室外昏暗的雪和鬼的世界上,奇怪的阴影前的星星。这的确是冷,bruisingly得吓人,不自然冷。乌苏拉简直不敢相信在她的鼻孔的空气。这似乎是有意识的,恶毒的,立意在其强烈的杀气寒光。
然而,这是美妙的,中毒,昏暗一片寂静,未变现雪,干预和她之间的可见的无形之间,她和闪烁的星星。她可以看到猎户座倾斜。他是多么美妙,美好的,足以使一个哭出声。
和所有周围这个摇篮,雪,并有坚定的雪在脚下,通过她的引导鞋底袭击重感冒。这是晚上,和沉默。她想到她能听到的星星。她想象中的明显,她能听到天体运动的明星,音乐,相当近在咫尺。她似乎像鸟儿一样飞之间的和谐运动。
但她紧紧搂住接近的Birkin。她突然意识到,她不知道他在想什么。她不知道他在那里不等。
`我的爱人!“ 她说,停下来看着他。
他的脸色苍白,他的眼前一片漆黑,他们有一个微弱的星光火花。他看到她的​​脸软,他上翘,非常靠近。他轻轻地吻了她。
`什么呢?“ 他问道。
“你爱我吗?“她问道。”
`太多了,“他平静地回答。
她抱着一点点接近。
`不要太多,“她承认。
`远东太多,“他说,几乎是可悲的。
`它让你伤心,我是你的一切吗?“ 她问,怅惘。他握着她靠近他,亲吻她,并且说,几乎没有声响:
“没有,但我觉得自己像一个乞丐 - 我觉得可怜。”
她沉默了,看着现在的明星。然后,她吻了他。
`不要成为一个乞丐,“她承认,若有所思。`这是不可耻的,你爱我。“
`这是可耻的手感不佳,是不是?“ 他回答说。
“为什么?” 为什么应该是什么?“ “她问道。” 他站定,在可怕的冷空气移动在山顶无形,她的一轮,他的手臂折叠。
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。
゛臉紅紅....

ZxID:704295


等级: 内阁元老
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
举报 只看该作者 30楼  发表于: 2013-10-29 0
。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 30 Snowed Up


WHEN URSULA and Birkin were gone, Gudrun felt herself free in her contest with Gerald. As they grew more used to each other, he seemed to press upon her more and more. At first she could manage him, so that her own will was always left free. But very soon, he began to ignore her female tactics, he dropped his respect for her whims and her privacies, he began to exert his own will blindly, without submitting to hers.
Already a vital conflict had set in, which frightened them both. But he was alone, whilst already she had begun to cast round for external resource.
When Ursula had gone, Gudrun felt her own existence had become stark and elemental. She went and crouched alone in her bedroom, looking out of the window at the big, flashing stars. In front was the faint shadow of the mountain-knot. That was the pivot. She felt strange and inevitable, as if she were centred upon the pivot of all existence, there was no further reality.
Presently Gerald opened the door. She knew he would not be long before he came. She was rarely alone, he pressed upon her like a frost, deadening her.
`Are you alone in the dark?' he said. And she could tell by his tone he resented it, he resented this isolation she had drawn round herself. Yet, feeling static and inevitable, she was kind towards him.
`Would you like to light the candle?' she asked.
He did not answer, but came and stood behind her, in the darkness.
`Look,' she said, `at that lovely star up there. Do you know its name?'
He crouched beside her, to look through the low window.
`No,' he said. `It is very fine.'
`Isn't it beautiful! Do you notice how it darts different coloured fires -- it flashes really superbly --'
They remained in silence. With a mute, heavy gesture she put her hand on his knee, and took his hand.
`Are you regretting Ursula?' he asked.
`No, not at all,' she said. Then, in a slow mood, she asked:
`How much do you love me?'
He stiffened himself further against her.
`How much do you think I do?' he asked.
`I don't know,' she replied.
`But what is your opinion?' he asked.
There was a pause. At length, in the darkness, came her voice, hard and indifferent:
`Very little indeed,' she said coldly, almost flippant.
His heart went icy at the sound of her voice.
`Why don't I love you?' he asked, as if admitting the truth of her accusation, yet hating her for it.
`I don't know why you don't -- I've been good to you. You were in a fearful state when you came to me.'
Her heart was beating to suffocate her, yet she was strong and unrelenting.
`When was I in a fearful state?' he asked.
`When you first came to me. I had to take pity on you. But it was never love.'
It was that statement `It was never love,' which sounded in his ears with madness.
`Why must you repeat it so often, that there is no love?' he said in a voice strangled with rage.
`Well you don't think you love, do you?' she asked.
He was silent with cold passion of anger.
`You don't think you can love me, do you?' she repeated almost with a sneer.
`No,' he said.
`You know you never have loved me, don't you?'
`I don't know what you mean by the word `love,' he replied.
`Yes, you do. You know all right that you have never loved me. Have you, do you think?'
`No,' he said, prompted by some barren spirit of truthfulness and obstinacy.
`And you never will love me,' she said finally, `will you?'
There was a diabolic coldness in her, too much to bear.
`No,' he said.
`Then,' she replied, `what have you against me!'
He was silent in cold, frightened rage and despair. `If only I could kill her,' his heart was whispering repeatedly. `If only I could kill her -- I should be free.'
It seemed to him that death was the only severing of this Gordian knot.
`Why do you torture me?' he said.
She flung her arms round his neck.
`Ah, I don't want to torture you,' she said pityingly, as if she were comforting a child. The impertinence made his veins go cold, he was insensible. She held her arms round his neck, in a triumph of pity. And her pity for him was as cold as stone, its deepest motive was hate of him, and fear of his power over her, which she must always counterfoil.
`Say you love me,' she pleaded. `Say you will love me for ever -- won't you -- won't you?'
But it was her voice only that coaxed him. Her senses were entirely apart from him, cold and destructive of him. It was her overbearing will that insisted.
`Won't you say you'll love me always?' she coaxed. `Say it, even if it isn't true -- say it Gerald, do.'
`I will love you always,' he repeated, in real agony, forcing the words out.
She gave him a quick kiss.
`Fancy your actually having said it,' she said with a touch of raillery.
He stood as if he had been beaten.
`Try to love me a little more, and to want me a little less,' she said, in a half contemptuous, half coaxing tone.
The darkness seemed to be swaying in waves across his mind, great waves of darkness plunging across his mind. It seemed to him he was degraded at the very quick, made of no account.
`You mean you don't want me?' he said.
`You are so insistent, and there is so little grace in you, so little fineness. You are so crude. You break me -- you only waste me -- it is horrible to me.'
`Horrible to you?' he repeated.
`Yes. Don't you think I might have a room to myself, now Ursula has gone? You can say you want a dressing room.'
`You do as you like -- you can leave altogether if you like,' he managed to articulate.
`Yes, I know that,' she replied. `So can you. You can leave me whenever you like -- without notice even.'
The great tides of darkness were swinging across his mind, he could hardly stand upright. A terrible weariness overcame him, he felt he must lie on the floor. Dropping off his clothes, he got into bed, and lay like a man suddenly overcome by drunkenness, the darkness lifting and plunging as if he were lying upon a black, giddy sea. He lay still in this strange, horrific reeling for some time, purely unconscious.
At length she slipped from her own bed and came over to him. He remained rigid, his back to her. He was all but unconscious.
She put her arms round his terrifying, insentient body, and laid her cheek against his hard shoulder.
`Gerald,' she whispered. `Gerald.'
There was no change in him. She caught him against her. She pressed her breasts against his shoulders, she kissed his shoulder, through the sleeping jacket. Her mind wondered, over his rigid, unliving body. She was bewildered, and insistent, only her will was set for him to speak to her.
`Gerald, my dear!' she whispered, bending over him, kissing his ear.
Her warm breath playing, flying rhythmically over his ear, seemed to relax the tension. She could feel his body gradually relaxing a little, losing its terrifying, unnatural rigidity. Her hands clutched his limbs, his muscles, going over him spasmodically.
The hot blood began to flow again through his veins, his limbs relaxed.
`Turn round to me,' she whispered, forlorn with insistence and triumph.
So at last he was given again, warm and flexible. He turned and gathered her in his arms. And feeling her soft against him, so perfectly and wondrously soft and recipient, his arms tightened on her. She was as if crushed, powerless in him. His brain seemed hard and invincible now like a jewel, there was no resisting him.
His passion was awful to her, tense and ghastly, and impersonal, like a destruction, ultimate. She felt it would kill her. She was being killed.
`My God, my God,' she cried, in anguish, in his embrace, feeling her life being killed within her. And when he was kissing her, soothing her, her breath came slowly, as if she were really spent, dying.
`Shall I die, shall I die?' she repeated to herself.
And in the night, and in him, there was no answer to the question.
And yet, next day, the fragment of her which was not destroyed remained intact and hostile, she did not go away, she remained to finish the holiday, admitting nothing. He scarcely ever left her alone, but followed her like a shadow, he was like a doom upon her, a continual `thou shalt,' `thou shalt not.' Sometimes it was he who seemed strongest, whist she was almost gone, creeping near the earth like a spent wind; sometimes it was the reverse. But always it was this eternal see-saw, one destroyed that the other might exist, one ratified because the other was nulled.
`In the end,' she said to herself, `I shall go away from him.'
`I can be free of her,' he said to himself in his paroxysms of suffering.
And he set himself to be free. He even prepared to go away, to leave her in the lurch. But for the first time there was a flaw in his will.
`Where shall I go?' he asked himself.
`Can't you be self-sufficient?' he replied to himself, putting himself upon his pride.
`Self-sufficient!' he repeated.
It seemed to him that Gudrun was sufficient unto herself, closed round and completed, like a thing in a case. In the calm, static reason of his soul, he recognised this, and admitted it was her right, to be closed round upon herself, self-complete, without desire. He realised it, he admitted it, it only needed one last effort on his own part, to win for himself the same completeness. He knew that it only needed one convulsion of his will for him to be able to turn upon himself also, to close upon himself as a stone fixes upon itself, and is impervious, self-completed, a thing isolated.
This knowledge threw him into a terrible chaos. Because, however much he might mentally will to be immune and self-complete, the desire for this state was lacking, and he could not create it. He could see that, to exist at all, he must be perfectly free of Gudrun, leave her if she wanted to be left, demand nothing of her, have no claim upon her.
But then, to have no claim upon her, he must stand by himself, in sheer nothingness. And his brain turned to nought at the idea. It was a state of nothingness. On the other hand, he might give in, and fawn to her. Or, finally, he might kill her. Or he might become just indifferent, purposeless, dissipated, momentaneous. But his nature was too serious, not gay enough or subtle enough for mocking licentiousness.
A strange rent had been torn in him; like a victim that is torn open and given to the heavens, so he had been torn apart and given to Gudrun. How should he close again? This wound, this strange, infinitely-sensitive opening of his soul, where he was exposed, like an open flower, to all the universe, and in which he was given to his complement, the other, the unknown, this wound, this disclosure, this unfolding of his own covering, leaving him incomplete, limited, unfinished, like an open flower under the sky, this was his cruellest joy. Why then should he forego it? Why should he close up and become impervious, immune, like a partial thing in a sheath, when he had broken forth, like a seed that has germinated, to issue forth in being, embracing the unrealised heavens.
He would keep the unfinished bliss of his own yearning even through the torture she inflicted upon him. A strange obstinacy possessed him. He would not go away from her whatever she said or did. A strange, deathly yearning carried him along with her. She was the determinating influence of his very being, though she treated him with contempt, repeated rebuffs, and denials, still he would never be gone, since in being near her, even, he felt the quickening, the going forth in him, the release, the knowledge of his own limitation and the magic of the promise, as well as the mystery of his own destruction and annihilation.
She tortured the open heart of him even as he turned to her. And she was tortured herself. It may have been her will was stronger. She felt, with horror, as if he tore at the bud of her heart, tore it open, like an irreverent persistent being. Like a boy who pulls off a fly's wings, or tears open a bud to see what is in the flower, he tore at her privacy, at her very life, he would destroy her as an immature bud, torn open, is destroyed.
She might open towards him, a long while hence, in her dreams, when she was a pure spirit. But now she was not to be violated and ruined. She closed against him fiercely.
They climbed together, at evening, up the high slope, to see the sunset. In the finely breathing, keen wind they stood and watched the yellow sun sink in crimson and disappear. Then in the east the peaks and ridges glowed with living rose, incandescent like immortal flowers against a brown-purple sky, a miracle, whilst down below the world was a bluish shadow, and above, like an annunciation, hovered a rosy transport in mid-air.
To her it was so beautiful, it was a delirium, she wanted to gather the glowing, eternal peaks to her breast, and die. He saw them, saw they were beautiful. But there arose no clamour in his breast, only a bitterness that was visionary in itself. He wished the peaks were grey and unbeautiful, so that she should not get her support from them. Why did she betray the two of them so terribly, in embracing the glow of the evening? Why did she leave him standing there, with the ice-wind blowing through his heart, like death, to gratify herself among the rosy snow-tips?
`What does the twilight matter?' he said. `Why do you grovel before it? Is it so important to you?'
She winced in violation and in fury.
`Go away,' she cried, `and leave me to it. It is beautiful, beautiful,' she sang in strange, rhapsodic tones. `It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. Don't try to come between it and me. Take yourself away, you are out of place --'
He stood back a little, and left her standing there, statue-like, transported into the mystic glowing east. Already the rose was fading, large white stars were flashing out. He waited. He would forego everything but the yearning.
`That was the most perfect thing I have ever seen,' she said in cold, brutal tones, when at last she turned round to him. `It amazes me that you should want to destroy it. If you can't see it yourself, why try to debar me?' But in reality, he had destroyed it for her, she was straining after a dead effect.
`One day,' he said, softly, looking up at her, `I shall destroy you, as you stand looking at the sunset; because you are such a liar.'
There was a soft, voluptuous promise to himself in the words. She was chilled but arrogant.
`Ha!' she said. `I am not afraid of your threats!' She denied herself to him, she kept her room rigidly private to herself. But he waited on, in a curious patience, belonging to his yearning for her.
`In the end,' he said to himself with real voluptuous promise, `when it reaches that point, I shall do away with her.' And he trembled delicately in every limb, in anticipation, as he trembled in his most violent accesses of passionate approach to her, trembling with too much desire.
She had a curious sort of allegiance with Loerke, all the while, now, something insidious and traitorous. Gerald knew of it. But in the unnatural state of patience, and the unwillingness to harden himself against her, in which he found himself, he took no notice, although her soft kindliness to the other man, whom he hated as a noxious insect, made him shiver again with an access of the strange shuddering that came over him repeatedly.
He left her alone only when he went skiing, a sport he loved, and which she did not practise. The he seemed to sweep out of life, to be a projectile into the beyond. And often, when he went away, she talked to the little German sculptor. They had an invariable topic, in their art.
They were almost of the same ideas. He hated Mestrovic, was not satisfied with the Futurists, he liked the West African wooden figures, the Aztec art, Mexican and Central American. He saw the grotesque, and a curious sort of mechanical motion intoxicated him, a confusion in nature. They had a curious game with each other, Gudrun and Loerke, of infinite suggestivity, strange and leering, as if they had some esoteric understanding of life, that they alone were initiated into the fearful central secrets, that the world dared not know. Their whole correspondence was in a strange, barely comprehensible suggestivity, they kindled themselves at the subtle lust of the Egyptians or the Mexicans. The whole game was one of subtle inter-suggestivity, and they wanted to keep it on the plane of suggestion. From their verbal and physical nuances they got the highest satisfaction in the nerves, from a queer interchange of half-suggested ideas, looks, expressions and gestures, which were quite intolerable, though incomprehensible, to Gerald. He had no terms in which to think of their commerce, his terms were much too gross.
The suggestion of primitive art was their refuge, and the inner mysteries of sensation their object of worship. Art and Life were to them the Reality and the Unreality.
`Of course,' said Gudrun, `life doesn't really matter -- it is one's art which is central. What one does in one's life has peu de rapport, it doesn't signify much.'
`Yes, that is so, exactly,' replied the sculptor. `What one does in one's art, that is the breath of one's being. What one does in one's life, that is a bagatelle for the outsiders to fuss about.'
It was curious what a sense of elation and freedom Gudrun found in this communication. She felt established for ever. Of course Gerald was bagatelle. Love was one of the temporal things in her life, except in so far as she was an artist. She thought of Cleopatra -- Cleopatra must have been an artist; she reaped the essential from a man, she harvested the ultimate sensation, and threw away the husk; and Mary Stuart, and the great Rachel, panting with her lovers after the theatre, these were the exoteric exponents of love. After all, what was the lover but fuel for the transport of this subtle knowledge, for a female art, the art of pure, perfect knowledge in sensuous understanding.
One evening Gerald was arguing with Loerke about Italy and Tripoli. The Englishman was in a strange, inflammable state, the German was excited. It was a contest of words, but it meant a conflict of spirit between the two men. And all the while Gudrun could see in Gerald an arrogant English contempt for a foreigner. Although Gerald was quivering, his eyes flashing, his face flushed, in his argument there was a brusqueness, a savage contempt in his manner, that made Gudrun's blood flare up, and made Loerke keen and mortified. For Gerald came down like a sledgehammer with his assertions, anything the little German said was merely contemptible rubbish.
At last Loerke turned to Gudrun, raising his hands in helpless irony, a shrug of ironical dismissal, something appealing and child-like.
`Sehen sie, gnadige Frau--' he began.
`Bitte sagen Sie nicht immer, gnadige Frau,' cried Gudrun, her eyes flashing, her cheeks burning. She looked like a vivid Medusa. Her voice was loud and clamorous, the other people in the room were startled.
`Please don't call me Mrs Crich,' she cried aloud.
The name, in Loerke's mouth particularly, had been an intolerable humiliation and constraint upon her, these many days.
The two men looked at her in amazement. Gerald went white at the cheek-bones.
`What shall I say, then?' asked Loerke, with soft, mocking insinuation.
`Sagen Sie nur nicht das,' she muttered, her cheeks flushed crimson. `Not that, at least.'
She saw, by the dawning look on Loerke's face, that he had understood. She was not Mrs Crich! So--o--, that explained a great deal.
`Soll ich Fraulein sagen?' he asked, malevolently.
`I am not married,' she said, with some hauteur.
Her heart was fluttering now, beating like a bewildered bird. She knew she had dealt a cruel wound, and she could not bear it.
Gerald sat erect, perfectly still, his face pale and calm, like the face of a statue. He was unaware of her, or of Loerke or anybody. He sat perfectly still, in an unalterable calm. Loerke, meanwhile, was crouching and glancing up from under his ducked head.
Gudrun was tortured for something to say, to relieve the suspense. She twisted her face in a smile, and glanced knowingly, almost sneering, at Gerald.
`Truth is best,' she said to him, with a grimace.
But now again she was under his domination; now, because she had dealt him this blow; because she had destroyed him, and she did not know how he had taken it. She watched him. He was interesting to her. She had lost her interest in Loerke.
Gerald rose at length, and went over in a leisurely still movement, to the Professor. The two began a conversation on Goethe.
She was rather piqued by the simplicity of Gerald's demeanour this evening. He did not seem angry or disgusted, only he looked curiously innocent and pure, really beautiful. Sometimes it came upon him, this look of clear distance, and it always fascinated her.
She waited, troubled, throughout the evening. She thought he would avoid her, or give some sign. But he spoke to her simply and unemotionally, as he would to anyone else in the room. A certain peace, an abstraction possessed his soul.
She went to his room, hotly, violently in love with him. He was so beautiful and inaccessible. He kissed her, he was a lover to her. And she had extreme pleasure of him. But he did not come to, he remained remote and candid, unconscious. She wanted to speak to him. But this innocent, beautiful state of unconsciousness that had come upon him prevented her. She felt tormented and dark.
In the morning, however, he looked at her with a little aversion, some horror and some hatred darkening into his eyes. She withdrew on to her old ground. But still he would not gather himself together, against her.
Loerke was waiting for her now. The little artist, isolated in his own complete envelope, felt that here at last was a woman from whom he could get something. He was uneasy all the while, waiting to talk with her, subtly contriving to be near her. Her presence filled him with keenness and excitement, he gravitated cunningly towards her, as if she had some unseen force of attraction.
He was not in the least doubtful of himself, as regards Gerald. Gerald was one of the outsiders. Loerke only hated him for being rich and proud and of fine appearance. All these things, however, riches, pride of social standing, handsome physique, were externals. When it came to the relation with a woman such as Gudrun, he, Loerke, had an approach and a power that Gerald never dreamed of.
How should Gerald hope to satisfy a woman of Gudrun's calibre? Did he think that pride or masterful will or physical strength would help him? Loerke knew a secret beyond these things. The greatest power is the one that is subtle and adjusts itself, not one which blindly attacks. And he, Loerke, had understanding where Gerald was a calf. He, Loerke, could penetrate into depths far out of Gerald's knowledge. Gerald was left behind like a postulant in the ante-room of this temple of mysteries, this woman. But he Loerke, could he not penetrate into the inner darkness, find the spirit of the woman in its inner recess, and wrestle with it there, the central serpent that is coiled at the core of life.
What was it, after all, that a woman wanted? Was it mere social effect, fulfilment of ambition in the social world, in the community of mankind? Was it even a union in love and goodness? Did she want `goodness'? Who but a fool would accept this of Gudrun? This was but the street view of her wants. Cross the threshold, and you found her completely, completely cynical about the social world and its advantages. Once inside the house of her soul and there was a pungent atmosphere of corrosion, an inflamed darkness of sensation, and a vivid, subtle, critical consciousness, that saw the world distorted, horrific.
What then, what next? Was it sheer blind force of passion that would satisfy her now? Not this, but the subtle thrills of extreme sensation in reduction. It was an unbroken will reacting against her unbroken will in a myriad subtle thrills of reduction, the last subtle activities of analysis and breaking down, carried out in the darkness of her, whilst the outside form, the individual, was utterly unchanged, even sentimental in its poses.
But between two particular people, any two people on earth, the range of pure sensational experience is limited. The climax of sensual reaction, once reached in any direction, is reached finally, there is no going on. There is only repetition possible, or the going apart of the two protagonists, or the subjugating of the one will to the other, or death.
Gerald had penetrated all the outer places of Gudrun's soul. He was to her the most crucial instance of the existing world, the ne plus ultra of the world of man as it existed for her. In him she knew the world, and had done with it. Knowing him finally she was the Alexander seeking new worlds. But there were no new worlds, there were no more men, there were only creatures, little, ultimate creatures like Loerke. The world was finished now, for her. There was only the inner, individual darkness, sensation within the ego, the obscene religious mystery of ultimate reduction, the mystic frictional activities of diabolic reducing down, disintegrating the vital organic body of life.
All this Gudrun knew in her subconsciousness, not in her mind. She knew her next step--she knew what she should move on to, when she left Gerald. She was afraid of Gerald, that he might kill her. But she did not intend to be killed. A fine thread still united her to him. It should not be her death which broke it. She had further to go, a further, slow exquisite experience to reap, unthinkable subtleties of sensation to know, before she was finished.
Of the last series of subtleties, Gerald was not capable. He could not touch the quick of her. But where his ruder blows could not penetrate, the fine, insinuating blade of Loerke's insect-like comprehension could. At least, it was time for her now to pass over to the other, the creature, the final craftsman. She knew that Loerke, in his innermost soul, was detached from everything, for him there was neither heaven nor earth nor hell. He admitted no allegiance, he gave no adherence anywhere. He was single and, by abstraction from the rest, absolute in himself.
Whereas in Gerald's soul there still lingered some attachment to the rest, to the whole. And this was his limitation. He was limited, borne, subject to his necessity, in the last issue, for goodness, for righteousness, for oneness with the ultimate purpose. That the ultimate purpose might be the perfect and subtle experience of the process of death, the will being kept unimpaired, that was not allowed in him. And this was his limitation.
There was a hovering triumph in Loerke, since Gudrun had denied her marriage with Gerald. The artist seemed to hover like a creature on the wing, waiting to settle. He did not approach Gudrun violently, he was never ill-timed. But carried on by a sure instinct in the complete darkness of his soul, he corresponded mystically with her, imperceptibly, but palpably.
For two days, he talked to her, continued the discussions of art, of life, in which they both found such pleasure. They praised the by-gone things, they took a sentimental, childish delight in the achieved perfections of the past. Particularly they liked the late eighteenth century, the period of Goethe and of Shelley, and Mozart.
They played with the past, and with the great figures of the past, a sort of little game of chess, or marionettes, all to please themselves. They had all the great men for their marionettes, and they two were the God of the show, working it all. As for the future, that they never mentioned except one laughed out some mocking dream of the destruction of the world by a ridiculous catastrophe of man's invention: a man invented such a perfect explosive that it blew the earth in two, and the two halves set off in different directions through space, to the dismay of the inhabitants: or else the people of the world divided into two halves, and each half decided it was perfect and right, the other half was wrong and must be destroyed; so another end of the world. Or else, Loerke's dream of fear, the world went cold, and snow fell everywhere, and only white creatures, polar-bears, white foxes, and men like awful white snow-birds, persisted in ice cruelty.
Apart from these stories, they never talked of the future. They delighted most either in mocking imaginations of destruction, or in sentimental, fine marionette-shows of the past. It was a sentimental delight to reconstruct the world of Goethe at Weimar, or of Schiller and poverty and faithful love, or to see again Jean Jacques in his quakings, or Voltaire at Ferney, or Frederick the Great reading his own poetry.
They talked together for hours, of literature and sculpture and painting, amusing themselves with Flaxman and Blake and Fuseli, with tenderness, and with Feuerbach and Bocklin. It would take them a life-time, they felt to live again, in petto, the lives of the great artists. But they preferred to stay in the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries.

已经一个重要的冲突,这吓坏了他们俩。但是,他独自一人,而她已经开始投下一轮外部资源。
当乌苏拉走后,戈珍觉得自己的存在已经成为鲜明的元素。她去了,独自蹲在她的卧室,看着窗外大,星光闪烁。在前面的山结淡淡的影子。这是支点。她感到奇怪的和不可避免的,如果她集中所有的存在的支点后,有没有进一步的现实。
目前,杰拉德打开了门。她知道他不会是长期的,在他来之前。她很少单独,他压在她像霜中,隔阻她。
“你独自在黑暗中?” 他说。她可以告诉他的语气,他憎恨它,他憎恨她拉圆钢自己这种隔离。然而,静态的和不可避免的感觉时,她对他的一种。
`你想点亮蜡烛吗?“ “她问道。”
他没有回答,而是来了,站在她的身后,在黑暗中。
“瞧,”她说,“在那个可爱的明星在那里。你知道它的名字?“
他蹲在她的旁边,期待通过低窗。
不,“他说。`这是非常精细的。“
`是不是很漂亮!你有没有注意到它是如何飞镖不同颜色的火灾 - 这真是雄伟闪烁 -
他们保持沉默。静音,厚重的姿态,她把她的手放在他的膝盖上,并拉着他的手。
“你后悔乌苏拉?他问道。
“”没有,一点都没有,“她说。然后,在一个缓慢的情绪,她问:
`你有多爱我吗?
他板起了自己对她的进一步。
`多少你看我做什么?“ 他问道。
“”我不知道,“她回答。”
“可是,您有什么看法?” 他问道。
有一个暂停。在长度,在黑暗中,传来了她的声音,坚硬和冷漠:
`确实很少,“她冷冷地说,几乎是轻率的。
他的心里去了她的声音在冰冷的。
“为什么不爱你吗?” 他问,如果承认她的指控的真相,还恨她。
`我不知道为什么你不这样做 - 我一直对你很好。你是一个可怕的状态,当你来找我。“
她的心脏跳动闷死她,但她坚强和不屈不挠的。
“当我在一个可怕的状态?” 他问道。
`当你第一次来找我。“ 我不得不把可怜你。但是,这是从来没有爱。“
这种说法'这是从来没有爱“,这在他耳边响起了疯狂。
`你为什么一定要重复,所以很多时候,有没有爱情?“ 他说,的声音扼杀愤怒。
`好了,你不觉得你的爱,你呢?“ “她问道。”
他沉默了用冷激情的愤怒。
你不认为你可以爱我,你呢?“ 她几乎冷笑着重复。
不,“他说。
你知道你从来没有爱过我,不要你吗?“
`我不知道什么字`爱你的意思,“他回答说。”
“是的,你怎么做。你知道所有正确的,你从来没有爱过我。中有你,你觉得呢?“
不,“他说,促使一些贫瘠的真实性和固执的精神。
`你永远也不会爱我,“她终于说,'你会吗?”
有一个魔鬼般的寒光在她身上,承受了太多。
不,“他说。
“然后,”她回答说,'你有什么话对我!“
他沉默了寒冷,恐惧的愤怒和绝望。`如果我能杀了她,“他的心脏反复窃窃私语。“”如果我能杀了她 - 我应该是免费的。“
在他看来,死亡是唯一的大义灭亲这一难解。
“为什么你在折磨我吗?” 他说。
她把她搂着他的脖子。
“”嗯,我不想折磨你,“她同情地说,仿佛在安慰一个孩子。无礼了他的静脉走冷,他没有知觉。她拉着她搂着他的脖子,并最终取得胜利的怜悯。她为他可惜像顽石一样冷,其最深的动机是恨他,他的力量在她的恐惧,她必须始终存根。
“说你爱我,”她承认。`说你会永远爱我 - 你不会 - 你不会?“
但它是她的声音,只是哄他。她的感觉完全除他之外,寒冷和破坏性他的。这是她霸道的意志,坚持。
`你说你会永远爱我吗?“ 她哄着。`说,即使它是不正确的 - 说杰拉德,做。“
`我会永远爱你“,他重复了一遍,真正的痛苦,迫使出来的话。
她给了他一个蜻蜓点水的吻。
`花式实际上说,“她说,淡淡的嘲讽。
他站在那里,好像他曾遭到殴打。
`试着爱我多一点,我想少一点,“她说,在一个半轻蔑,一半哄小孩的声调。
黑暗似乎荡漾在他的脑海中摇曳,在他的心中波澜​​黑暗暴跌。在他看来,他被降解非常快,没有考虑。
“”你的意思是你不想我吗?“ 他说。
`你是如此的坚持,还有那么一点在你的恩典,这么少的细度。你是如此的原油。你打破我 - 你不仅浪费我 - 这对我来说是可怕的。“
`可怕吗?“ 他重复了一遍。
“”是的。难道你不觉得,我可能有一个自己的房间,现在已经乌苏拉?你可以说你想要一间更衣室。“
“”你这样做,只要你喜欢 - 如果你愿意,你完全可以离开,“他设法加以阐述。
“是的,我知道,”她回答。所以,你也可以。你可以离开我,只要你喜欢 - 甚至,恕不另行通知。“
伟大的黑暗潮汐摆动在他的脑海中,他几乎不能直立。一个可怕的厌战情绪胜过他,他觉得自己必须躺在地板上。他滴脱掉衣服,钻进被窝,躺在像一名男子突然克服因醉酒,在黑暗中提升和暴跌,如果他说谎后,一个黑色的,令人眼花缭乱的海。他静静地躺着一段时间,在这个陌生的,可怕的缫丝纯粹是无意识的。
她从她自己的床上滑落,过来给他。他仍然是刚性的,背对着她。他所有,但无意识。
她把她搂着他的可怕,无情的身体,对他的路肩,并奠定了她的脸颊。
杰拉德,“她低声说。” “杰拉尔德。
在他身上并无任何变动。她抓住了他对她的。对他的肩膀,她紧紧握住她的乳房,她吻了他的肩膀,通过睡觉夹克。她心里想,在他的刚性,不死的身体。她却一脸茫然,并坚持,只有她会被设置为他和她说话。
杰拉德,亲爱的!“ 她低声说,他俯身,亲吻他的耳朵。
她温热的气息打在他的耳朵,有节奏地飞,似乎放松紧张。她能感觉到他的身体逐渐放松了一下,失去了其可怕的,不自然的刚性。她的手抓住了他的四肢,他的肌肉,他断断续续。
炎热的血液开始再次流动,通过他的脉,他的四肢放松。
`我转身,“她低声说,孤独的坚持和胜利。
所以最后他再次给予,温暖和灵活。他转过身来,她在他的怀里聚集。她柔软的感觉对他如此完美的奇妙柔软和收件人,双臂收紧她。她仿佛粉碎,他无能为力。他的大脑似乎很难和无敌现在像宝石,有没有抵制他。
他的激情是可怕的她,紧张和可怕的,客观的,就像一个破坏,最终。她觉得这会杀了她。她被打死。
“”我的上帝,我的上帝,“她哭了,在痛苦,在他的怀抱中,感觉她的生活在她被杀害。,当他亲吻她,安抚她,她的呼吸缓缓走来,仿佛她真的花,奄奄一息。
`我死了,我死了吗?“ 她重复自己。
而在夜间,在他看来,有没有答案的问题。
然而,第二天,她不被破坏的片段保持完整和敌意,她没有走,她仍然完成假期,什么都不承认。他几乎从不离开她一个人,而是像影子一样跟着她,他像一个劫数在她身上,一个持续的`你要'`你不可。“ 有时,它是谁,他似乎最强,惠斯特她几乎消失了,匍匐接近地球像一个花风;有时是相反的。但始终是这个永恒的拉锯,摧毁了一个其他可能存在的,因为其他批准清零。
“最后,”她说,对自己说,'我去离他而去。“
“”我能自由的她,“他对自己说,在他发作的痛苦。
他为自己是免费的。他甚至准备走开,让她陷入了困境。但第一次在他的意志是有缺陷的。
`我该去哪里?“ 他问自己。
`你就不能自给自足?他回答说自己,把自己后,他的骄傲。
`自给自足!“ 他重复了一遍。
在他看来,戈珍对自己足够,封闭轮完成后,就像一个东西的情况下。在平静,静的原因,他的灵魂,他认识到了这一点,并承认这是她的权利,被关闭后,圆自己,自我完成,没有欲望。他意识到的时候,他承认了,只需要一个最后的努力,他自己的一部分,为自己赢得相同的完整性。他知道,只需要一抽搐,他的意志,他是能够把自己也如石头修复本身,收在自己身上,是不透水的,自我完​​成的,孤立的一件事。
这方面的知识,把他扔到一个可怕的混乱。因为,尽管他可能精神上将免疫和自我完成的,这种状态下的欲望缺乏,他无法创建。他可以看到,在所有存在,他必须是完全免费戈珍,离开她,如果她想离开,没有她的需求,她没有要求。
但是,她没有要求,他必须站在自己的,纯粹的虚无。他的大脑的想法化为泡影。这是一个虚无状态。另一方面,他可能会放弃,并给她的小鹿。或者,终于,他可能会杀了她。或者,他有可能成为只是无动于衷,漫无目的,消散,momentaneous。但他的性质太严重了,不是同性恋够足够的或微妙的嘲讽放荡。
一个奇怪的租金已经被撕裂,他裂开天上像一个受害者,所以他已经四分五裂,给戈珍。他应该如何再次关闭?这伤口,这个奇怪的,无限敏感开口,他的灵魂,在那里他被暴露出来,就像是一个开放的花,所有的宇宙,他给他的补充,其他的,未知的,这个伤口,披露此展开他自己的覆盖,留给他的不完整的,有限的,未完成的,像一个开放的花的天空下,这是他最残酷的喜悦。那么,为何要放弃他呢?他为什么要关闭,并成为不透水,免疫,就像在鞘部分的东西,当他打破了来回,就像一颗种子已经发芽,问题,提出了在被拥抱的未变现的天堂。
他将保持自己的向往,甚至在他身上造成的折磨,她未完成的幸福。他拥有一种奇怪的固执。他不会去离她而去,她说什么或做了。A怪,死一般的向往,他与她一起进行。她是法测定的影响,虽然她对待他的蔑视,多次断然拒绝,并否认他,他仍然永远不会消失,因为离她近一点,甚至,他觉得自己的加快,他出去,释放,其自身的局限性的知识和魔法的承诺,以及他自己的破坏和毁灭之谜。
她折磨他更开放的心,因为他转身向她。她被折磨自己。它可能已被她强。她觉得恐怖,仿佛他撕毁了她的心脏在萌芽状态,撕毁打开它,像一个的不敬持续存在。谁拉了苍蝇的翅膀,或眼泪,打开一芽是什么花,他撕毁了她的隐私,她的生命像一个男孩,他会毁了她作为一个不成熟的芽,撕开,被销毁。
她可能向他打开,很长一段时间,因此,在她的梦想时,她是一个纯粹的精神。但现在她不被侵犯和破坏。她狠狠的对他关闭。
晚上,他们一起爬上了高坡,看日落。在细微的呼吸,他们敏锐的风站着,观看黄色太阳片深红色消失。然后在东部峰峦闪耀着生活水平上升,白炽灯像不朽的花朵对棕紫色的天空,奇迹出现了,而低于世界是一个蓝色的阴影,以上徘徊,像报喜,一个玫瑰色的运输中旬空气。
对她来说,真是太漂亮了,这是一个精神错乱,她希望收集发光的,永恒的峰对她的乳房,死。他看见了他们,看到他们是美丽的。但有没有出现在他的胸膛叫嚣,只有苦味,这是富有远见的本身。他希望峰灰色和不美的,所以她不应该得到她的支持。她为什么背叛了他们两个如此可怕,在拥抱焕发晚上?她为什么离开他站在那里,用冰风吹过他的心,就像死了一样,来满足自己之间的红润雪提示?
“暮色什么事?” 他说。“为什么你面前卑躬屈膝?它是对你如此重要?“
她畏缩在违反和愤怒。
走开,“她哭了,”给我留下它。它是美丽的,美丽的,“她唱的在奇怪,狂想色调。`这是在我的生活中,我所见过的最美丽的东西。不要试图来和我之间。把自己的时候,你出来的地方 - “
他站在后面一点点,留下她站在那里,雕像般,泛着神秘的东运入。玫瑰已经褪色,大型白色星星闪烁。他等待着。他会放弃一切,但向往。
`这是我所见过的最完美的事情,“她说,在寒冷,残酷的色调,最后她转身他。`我非常惊讶,你应该要消灭它。如果你还看不出来自己,为什么尝试德巴尔我吗?“ 但在现实中,他已经摧毁了她,她使劲后死的效果。
`有一天,“他说,轻声道,抬头看着她,我会毁了你,你站在看日落,因为你是这样的骗子。”
有一种柔软,骄奢淫逸的话对自己的承诺。她是冷的,但傲慢。
“哈!” 她说。“”我不是怕你的威胁!“ 她否认自己对他,她一直在她的房间刚性私人自己。但他等待在好奇的耐心,属于他她向往。
“最终,”他说自己真正的骄奢淫逸的承诺,当它达到这一点,我将她带走了。“ 他颤抖着微妙在每一个肢体,在期待,他颤抖着她,颤抖着太多的欲望在他最猛烈的访问充满激情的方法。
她有一个奇怪的那种效忠与Loerke,而所有的一切,现在,阴险和卖国的东西。杰拉德知道。但变硬自己对她的耐心,不愿意在不自然的状态,他在其中发现了自己,他没有采取任何通知,虽然她柔软的厚道的另一名男子,他恨作为一个害虫,使他再次颤抖奇怪的颤抖,他走了过来反复访问。
他留下她一个人只有当他去滑雪,他爱的运动的,是她没练。他似乎扫出的生活,是一个弹丸进入超越。时候,当他离开的时候,她跟小德雕塑家。他们有一个不变的话题,在他们的艺术。
他们几乎相同的想法。他恨梅斯特罗维奇,,不满意与未来主义,他喜欢西非木雕人物,阿兹台克人的艺术,墨西哥和中美洲。他看见怪诞,机械运动他陶醉,大自然的混乱和好奇的排序。他们有一个奇怪的游戏与对方,戈珍和Loerke的,无限的的,奇怪suggestivity送秋波,如果他们有一些深奥的对生活的理解,他们单独发起到中央可怕的秘密,这个世界不敢知道。他们的整个信件是在一个陌生的,勉强理解suggestivity,他们点燃自己微妙的情欲的埃及人或墨西哥人。整场比赛是一个微妙的跨suggestivity,他们想保持它在飞机上的建议。从他们的言语和身体的细微差别,他们中的神经得到了最高的满意度,从一个奇怪的交换半提示的思路,长相,表情和手势,这是相当难以忍受,虽然难以理解,杰拉尔德。他不认为自己的电子商务,他的条件太毛条款。
原始艺术的建议是他们的避难所,和内部奥秘的感觉他们崇拜的对象。艺术与生活是他们在现实与虚幻。
“当然,”戈珍说,生活其实并不重要 - 它是一个人的艺术,这是中央。什么人做一个人的生命中有PEU融洽,但这并不意味着太多。“
“是的,是这样,正好,”雕塑家回答。`什么人能在一个人的艺术,那就是呼吸的。什么人做一个人的生命,这是一件小事,外人大惊小怪。“
好奇感得意与自由戈珍发现在这个通信。她觉得永远坚立。当然杰拉德是小事。爱是在她的生活中的世俗事物之一,但到目前为止,因为她是一个艺术家。她想到了埃及艳后 - 埃及艳后一直是艺术家,她收获了必不可少的一个男人,她收获了最终的感觉,扔掉的稻壳和玛丽·斯图尔特和伟大的雷切尔,气喘吁吁后与她的恋人剧院,这是通俗的爱情指数。毕竟,这种微妙的知识的情人,但燃料的运输,为女性艺术,艺术的纯净,完美的知识在感性的认识。
一天晚上,杰拉德与Loerke争论关于意大利和的黎波里。英国人是在一个陌生的,易燃的状态,德国人很兴奋。这是一场比赛的话,但它意味着两个男人之间的冲突的精神。和所有的同时戈珍可以看到杰拉德一个傲慢的英语对外国人的蔑视。虽然杰拉德在颤抖,他的眼睛闪烁,满脸通红,他的论点有一个带有粗鲁,野蛮的蔑视,这使他的态度戈珍的血液耀斑,并Loerke敏锐和羞愧。杰拉德来到了他的断言,像一把大锤任何小德说,仅仅是卑鄙的垃圾。
最后Loerke戈珍转身举起双手,耸耸肩无奈的讽刺,讽刺解雇,一些吸引力和孩子般的。
`Sehen SIE,弗劳gnadige - “他开始。
`BITTE萨根SIE NICHT的的沉浸,gnadige弗劳,“戈珍哭了,她的眼睛闪烁,她的脸颊燃烧。她看起来像一个生动的美杜莎。她的声音响亮而吵闹的,在房间里的其他人都吓了一跳。
“”请不要叫我夫人克里奇,“她大声喊叫。
的名称,在Loerke的嘴,尤其是一直在她身上,这么些日子难以忍受的屈辱和约束。
该两名男子看着她愣住了。杰拉尔德白色颧骨。
`我说什么,然后呢?问Loerke,具有手感柔软,嘲讽的影射。
“道说SIE淖尔NICHT达斯,”她喃喃自语,她的脸绯红绯红。`不说,至少。“
她看到,曙光看看对Loerke的脸,他的理解。她不是克里奇夫人!所以 - O - 解释很大。
`索尔ICH小姐萨根?他,恶狠狠地问。
`我没有结婚,“她说,有些傲慢。
她的心脏现在飘飘,像个木头鸟跳动。她知道,她处理了一个残酷的伤口,她实在忍不住了。
杰拉德坐在直立,完全静止,脸色苍白而平静,就像面对一尊雕像。他是不知道她,或Loerke或任何人。他坐在完全静止的,不可改变的平静。同时,Loerke卧虎藏龙一眼从他躲开头上下。
折磨了戈珍说的东西,以减轻悬念。她扭曲了她的脸在微笑,扫了一眼明知,几乎讥笑,杰拉尔德。
“真相是最好的,”她对他说,做了个鬼脸。
但现在她又是在他的统治下,现在,因为她曾处理他这个打击,因为她摧毁了他,她不知道他是怎么采取了它。她看着他。他是对她有意思。她已经失去了她的兴趣Loerke。
杰拉尔德上涨长度,就在悠闲地静止运动,教授。两人开始了对歌德的谈话。
她而激起杰拉德的风范今天晚上的简单。他似乎没有愤怒或厌恶,只有他好奇地看着无辜和纯洁的,真的很漂亮。有时它临到他,看看这个明确的距离,它总是让她着迷。
她等待着,困扰,整个晚上。她以为他会避开她,或者给一些迹象。但他简单而冷静地对她说话,他将房间中的其他任何人。某和平拥有一个抽象的概念,他的灵魂。
她走进自己的房间,激烈,猛烈地爱上了他。他是如此美丽,交通不便。他吻她,他是她的情人。她有他的极度快感。但他没有来,他仍然是远程​​和坦诚,不省人事。她想和他说话。但是,这个无辜的,美丽的昏迷状态,表明来意后,他阻止她。她觉得自己受痛苦和黑暗。
然而,在早上,他看着她一点点厌恶,一些恐怖和一些仇恨,他的眼睛变黑。她退出她的老地面上。但他仍然不会自己聚集在一起,反对她。
Loerke现在正等着她。孤立的小画家,在他自己的完整信封,感觉在这里是一个女人,他可以得到的东西。他不安所有的同时,等待,巧妙地与她交谈,达成靠近她。她的存在,他充满了热切和兴奋,他狡猾地朝她所吸引,如果她有某种看不见的力量的吸引力。
他是不是在怀疑自己,至于杰拉德。杰拉尔德是一个外人。Loerke只是恨他的丰富而自豪,精致美观。所有这些东西,但是,财富,社会地位的骄傲,英俊的身形,是外部。当它来到的关系与女人如戈珍,他Loerke,有一种方法和一种力量,杰拉德做梦也没想到的。
杰拉德希望应该如何满足女人戈珍的口径?他认为骄傲或高超的意愿或体力会帮助他吗?知道一个秘密Loerke超越这些东西。最大的功率是一个微妙和调整自己,而不是盲目攻击。他Loerke,有理解杰拉尔德是一头小牛。他Loerke,能渗透到深处远出杰拉德的知识。杰拉德留下,像望会在这个寺庙的奥秘,这个女人的接待室。但他Loerke的,他能不能穿透到内部的黑暗,找到精神的女人在其内凹进,并在那里与它搏斗,中央蛇盘绕在生命的核心。
它是什么,毕竟,一个女人想要的吗?是单纯的社会效果,在人类社会,履行社会世界的野心?它甚至是工会的爱和善良?她要'善'吗?谁,但傻子才会接受这个戈珍?这是,但想她的街景。跨越的门槛,你发现她完全,完全愤世嫉俗的社会世界和它的优点。一旦进入她的灵魂的房子,有一股刺鼻的大气腐蚀,发炎的黑暗的感觉,生动的,微妙的,批判意识,看到世界扭曲的,可怕的。
那么,下一步是什么?激情纯粹的盲目的力量,将满足她现在呢?不是这个,而是在减少极端的感觉微妙的惊险刺激。这是一个完整的意志反应,反对她不间断的意志在减少,最后分析和微妙的活动打破了无数细微的刺激,她在黑暗中进行,而外面的形式,个人,是完全不变的,甚至是感伤在它的姿势。
但在两个特定的人之间,在地球上任何两个人,纯耸人听闻经验的范围是有限的。感性的反应,一旦达到在任何方向的高潮,最终达到,也没有去。有重复,或去除了两个主角,或征服的意志,或死亡。
杰拉德已经渗透戈珍的灵魂外的地方。他是她最重要的实例现有的世界,人的世界,它的存在对她的NE加超。在他身上,她知道世界,并用它做。他终于知道她是亚历山大寻求新的世界。但有没有新的世界,有没有更多的男人,有唯一的生物,像Loerke一点,最终生物。世界现在已经完成了,对她来说。有只内,个别的黑暗,感觉内自我,淫秽的宗教神秘最终减少摩擦活动,神秘的力量减少停机,崩解的重要的有机生命体。
这一切戈珍知道在她的潜意识中,而不是在她的脑海。她知道她的下一个步骤 - 她知道她应该继续前进,当她离开杰拉德。她害怕杰拉德,他可能会杀了她。但她并不打算被杀死。罚款线程仍然团结一致她给他。它不应该是她打破了它的死亡。她还去,进一步缓慢的精致生活体验收割,不可想象的微妙感觉知道,之前,她已经完成。
最后一个系列的微妙之处,杰拉尔德是没有能力。他不能碰她的快。但是,他的粗鲁打击无法穿透,罚款,影射刀片Loerke像昆虫一样的理解。至少,它现在是时间让她通过转移到其他的生物,最终的工匠。她知道,Loerke,在他的灵魂深处,脱离一切,对他来说既不是天堂,也不是地球也不是地狱。他承认没有效忠,在任何地方,他没有坚持。他是单从其余的抽象,绝对的自己。
而在杰拉德的灵魂仍然徘徊其余一些附件,给整个。这是他的局限性。他是有限的,传播的,受他的必要性,在过去的问题,善良,公义,统一性与最终目的。的最终目的可能是完美的和微妙的死亡过程中的经验,将被保留未受损伤,他不允许。这是他的局限性。
有一种徘徊在Loerke胜利的,因为戈珍否认了她的婚姻与杰拉德。艺术家似乎像一个机翼上的生物徘徊,等待解决。他没办法戈珍猛烈,他从来没有生不逢时。但所进行的一个肯定的本能在完全的黑暗中,他的灵魂,他神秘对应她,不知不觉中,但触摸。
两天来,他给她讲,继续讨论艺术,生活,他们都发现了这样的乐趣。他们称赞了由不见了的东西,他们把一个感性的,孩子气的喜悦,达到完善的过去。他们特别喜欢十八世纪后期,歌德,雪莱期间,莫扎特。
他们打过去,伟大人物的过去,一种国际象棋的小游戏,或木偶,一切都是为了取悦自己。他们把所有的伟人,他们的木偶,他们二人的表演,这一切的神。至于未来,他们从来没有提到除1笑出来一些嘲讽的梦想毁灭世界由一个荒谬的灾难的人的发明:一个人发明了这样一个完美的爆发力,它炸毁地球的两种,并设置了两个半关闭通过空间,在不同的方向不舍的居民或其他人的世界分为两半,每一半决定它是完美的,正确的,另一半是错的,必须销毁,所以另一端世界。否则,Loerke的梦想,恐惧,世界冷了,雪无处不在下跌,和,只有白色生物,极地熊,白色的狐狸,和男人一样可怕的白色雪鸟,坚持在冰残酷。
除了从这些故事中,他们从来没有说过的未来。他们最高兴嘲笑销毁想象力,或感伤,过去精木偶表演。这是一个感伤的喜悦,重建世界的歌德在魏玛,的席勒和贫困,忠贞不渝的爱情,或再次让·雅克·在他的quakings,或伏尔泰弗尼,腓特烈大帝读自己的诗歌。
他们谈了几个小时,文学,雕塑和绘画的,好玩的自己弗拉克斯曼和布雷克和富塞利,有触痛,费尔巴哈和Bocklin。它能把他们的生活时,他们觉得再住,在petto,伟大的艺术家的生活。但他们宁愿留在十八世纪和十九世纪。
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。
゛臉紅紅....

ZxID:704295


等级: 内阁元老
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
举报 只看该作者 31楼  发表于: 2013-11-23 0
。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。

Chapter 31


Exeunt WHEN THEY brought the body home, the next morning, Gudrun was shut up in her room. From her window she saw men coming along with a burden, over the snow. She sat still and let the minutes go by.
There came a tap at her door. She opened. There stood a woman, saying softly, oh, far too reverently:
`They have found him, madam!'
`Il est mort?'
`Yes -- hours ago.'
Gudrun did not know what to say. What should she say? What should she feel? What should she do? What did they expect of her? She was coldly at a loss.
`Thank you,' she said, and she shut the door of her room. The woman went away mortified. Not a word, not a tear -- ha! Gudrun was cold, a cold woman.
Gudrun sat on in her room, her face pale and impassive. What was she to do? She could not weep and make a scene. She could not alter herself. She sat motionless, hiding from people. Her one motive was to avoid actual contact with events. She only wrote out a long telegram to Ursula and Birkin.
In the afternoon, however, she rose suddenly to look for Loerke. She glanced with apprehension at the door of the room that had been Gerald's. Not for worlds would she enter there.
She found Loerke sitting alone in the lounge. She went straight up to him.
`It isn't true, is it?' she said.
He looked up at her. A small smile of misery twisted his face. He shrugged his shoulders.
`True?' he echoed.
`We haven't killed him?' she asked.
He disliked her coming to him in such a manner. He raised his shoulders wearily.
`It has happened,' he said.
She looked at him. He sat crushed and frustrated for the time being, quite as emotionless and barren as herself. My God! this was a barren tragedy, barren, barren.
She returned to her room to wait for Ursula and Birkin. She wanted to get away, only to get away. She could not think or feel until she had got away, till she was loosed from this position.
The day passed, the next day came. She heard the sledge, saw Ursula and Birkin alight, and she shrank from these also.
Ursula came straight up to her.
`Gudrun!' she cried, the tears running down her cheeks. And she took her sister in her arms. Gudrun hid her face on Ursula's shoulder, but still she could not escape the cold devil of irony that froze her soul.
`Ha, ha!' she thought, `this is the right behaviour.'
But she could not weep, and the sight of her cold, pale, impassive face soon stopped the fountain of Ursula's tears. In a few moments, the sisters had nothing to say to each other.
`Was it very vile to be dragged back here again?' Gudrun asked at length.
Ursula looked up in some bewilderment.
`I never thought of it,' she said.
`I felt a beast, fetching you,' said Gudrun. `But I simply couldn't see people. That is too much for me.'
`Yes,' said Ursula, chilled.
Birkin tapped and entered. His face was white and expressionless. She knew he knew. He gave her his hand, saying:
`The end of this trip, at any rate.'
Gudrun glanced at him, afraid.
There was silence between the three of them, nothing to be said. At length Ursula asked in a small voice:
`Have you seen him?'
He looked back at Ursula with a hard, cold look, and did not trouble to answer.
`Have you seen him?' she repeated.
`I have,' he said, coldly.
Then he looked at Gudrun.
`Have you done anything?' he said.
`Nothing,' she replied, `nothing.'
She shrank in cold disgust from making any statement.
`Loerke says that Gerald came to you, when you were sitting on the sledge at the bottom of the Rudelbahn, that you had words, and Gerald walked away. What were the words about? I had better know, so that I can satisfy the authorities, if necessary.'
Gudrun looked up at him, white, childlike, mute with trouble.
`There weren't even any words,' she said. `He knocked Loerke down and stunned him, he half strangled me, then he went away.'
To herself she was saying:
`A pretty little sample of the eternal triangle!' And she turned ironically away, because she knew that the fight had been between Gerald and herself and that the presence of the third party was a mere contingency -an inevitable contingency perhaps, but a contingency none the less. But let them have it as an example of the eternal triangle, the trinity of hate. It would be simpler for them.
Birkin went away, his manner cold and abstracted. But she knew he would do things for her, nevertheless, he would see her through. She smiled slightly to herself, with contempt. Let him do the work, since he was so extremely good at looking after other people.
Birkin went again to Gerald. He had loved him. And yet he felt chiefly disgust at the inert body lying there. It was so inert, so coldly dead, a carcase, Birkin's bowels seemed to turn to ice. He had to stand and look at the frozen dead body that had been Gerald.
It was the frozen carcase of a dead male. Birkin remembered a rabbit which he had once found frozen like a board on the snow. It had been rigid like a dried board when he picked it up. And now this was Gerald, stiff as a board, curled up as if for sleep, yet with the horrible hardness somehow evident. It filled him with horror. The room must be made warm, the body must be thawed. The limbs would break like glass or like wood if they had to be straightened.
He reached and touched the dead face. And the sharp, heavy bruise of ice bruised his living bowels. He wondered if he himself were freezing too, freezing from the inside. In the short blond moustache the life-breath was frozen into a block of ice, beneath the silent nostrils. And this was Gerald!
Again he touched the sharp, almost glittering fair hair of the frozen body. It was icy-cold, hair icy-cold, almost venomous. Birkin's heart began to freeze. He had loved Gerald. Now he looked at the shapely, strangecoloured face, with the small, fine, pinched nose and the manly cheeks, saw it frozen like an ice-pebble -- yet he had loved it. What was one to think or feel? His brain was beginning to freeze, his blood was turning to ice-water. So cold, so cold, a heavy, bruising cold pressing on his arms from outside, and a heavier cold congealing within him, in his heart and in his bowels.
He went over the snow slopes, to see where the death had been. At last he came to the great shallow among the precipices and slopes, near the summit of the pass. It was a grey day, the third day of greyness and stillness. All was white, icy, pallid, save for the scoring of black rocks that jutted like roots sometimes, and sometimes were in naked faces. In the distance a slope sheered down from a peak, with many black rockslides.
It was like a shallow pot lying among the stone and snow of the upper world. In this pot Gerald had gone to sleep. At the far end, the guides had driven iron stakes deep into the snow-wall, so that, by means of the great rope attached, they could haul themselves up the massive snow-front, out on to the jagged summit of the pass, naked to heaven, where the Marienhutte hid among the naked rocks. Round about, spiked, slashed snow-peaks pricked the heaven.
Gerald might have found this rope. He might have hauled himself up to the crest. He might have heard the dogs in the Marienhutte, and found shelter. He might have gone on, down the steep, steep fall of the south-side, down into the dark valley with its pines, on to the great Imperial road leading south to Italy.
He might! And what then? The Imperial road! The south? Italy? What then? Was it a way out? It was only a way in again. Birkin stood high in the painful air, looking at the peaks, and the way south. Was it any good going south, to Italy? Down the old, old Imperial road?
He turned away. Either the heart would break, or cease to care. Best cease to care. Whatever the mystery which has brought forth man and the universe, it is a non-human mystery, it has its own great ends, man is not the criterion. Best leave it all to the vast, creative, non-human mystery. Best strive with oneself only, not with the universe.
`God cannot do without man.' It was a saying of some great French religious teacher. But surely this is false. God can do without man. God could do without the ichthyosauri and the mastodon. These monsters failed creatively to develop, so God, the creative mystery, dispensed with them. In the same way the mystery could dispense with man, should he too fail creatively to change and develop. The eternal creative mystery could dispose of man, and replace him with a finer created being. Just as the horse has taken the place of the mastodon.
It was very consoling to Birkin, to think this. If humanity ran into a cul de sac and expended itself, the timeless creative mystery would bring forth some other being, finer, more wonderful, some new, more lovely race, to carry on the embodiment of creation. The game was never up. The mystery of creation was fathomless, infallible, inexhaustible, forever. Races came and went, species passed away, but ever new species arose, more lovely, or equally lovely, always surpassing wonder. The fountainhead was incorruptible and unsearchable. It had no limits. It could bring forth miracles, create utter new races and new species, in its own hour, new forms of consciousness, new forms of body, new units of being. To be man was as nothing compared to the possibilities of the creative mystery. To have one's pulse beating direct from the mystery, this was perfection, unutterable satisfaction. Human or inhuman mattered nothing. The perfect pulse throbbed with indescribable being, miraculous unborn species.
Birkin went home again to Gerald. He went into the room, and sat down on the bed. Dead, dead and cold! Imperial Caesar dead, and turned to clay Would stop a hole to keep the wind away.
There was no response from that which had been Gerald. Strange, congealed, icy substance -- no more. No more!
Terribly weary, Birkin went away, about the day's business. He did it all quietly, without bother. To rant, to rave, to be tragic, to make situations -- it was all too late. Best be quiet, and bear one's soul in patience and in fullness.
But when he went in again, at evening, to look at Gerald between the candles, because of his heart's hunger, suddenly his heart contracted, his own candle all but fell from his hand, as, with a strange whimpering cry, the tears broke out. He sat down in a chair, shaken by a sudden access. Ursula who had followed him, recoiled aghast from him, as he sat with sunken head and body convulsively shaken, making a strange, horrible sound of tears.
`I didn't want it to be like this -- I didn't want it to be like this,' he cried to himself. Ursula could but think of the Kaiser's: `Ich habe as nicht gewollt.' She looked almost with horror on Birkin.
Suddenly he was silent. But he sat with his head dropped, to hide his face. Then furtively he wiped his face with his fingers. Then suddenly he lifted his head, and looked straight at Ursula, with dark, almost vengeful eyes.
`He should have loved me,' he said. `I offered him.'
She, afraid, white, with mute lips answered:
`What difference would it have made!'
`It would!' he said. `It would.'
He forgot her, and turned to look at Gerald. With head oddly lifted, like a man who draws his head back from an insult, half haughtily, he watched the cold, mute, material face. It had a bluish cast. It sent a shaft like ice through the heart of the living man. Cold, mute, material! Birkin remembered how once Gerald had clutched his hand, with a warm, momentaneous grip of final love. For one second -- then let go again, let go for ever. If he had kept true to that clasp, death would not have mattered. Those who die, and dying still can love, still believe, do not die. They live still in the beloved. Gerald might still have been living in the spirit with Birkin, even after death. He might have lived with his friend, a further life.
But now he was dead, like clay, like bluish, corruptible ice. Birkin looked at the pale fingers, the inert mass. He remembered a dead stallion he had seen: a dead mass of maleness, repugnant. He remembered also the beautiful face of one whom he had loved, and who had died still having the faith to yield to the mystery. That dead face was beautiful, no one could call it cold, mute, material. No one could remember it without gaining faith in the mystery, without the soul's warming with new, deep life-trust.
And Gerald! The denier! He left the heart cold, frozen, hardly able to beat. Gerald's father had looked wistful, to break the heart: but not this last terrible look of cold, mute Matter. Birkin watched and watched.
Ursula stood aside watching the living man stare at the frozen face of the dead man. Both faces were unmoved and unmoving. The candle-flames flickered in the frozen air, in the intense silence.
`Haven't you seen enough?' she said.
He got up.
`It's a bitter thing to me,' he said.
`What -- that he's dead?' she said.
His eyes just met hers. He did not answer.
`You've got me,' she said.
He smiled and kissed her.
`If I die,' he said, `you'll know I haven't left you.'
`And me?' she cried.
`And you won't have left me,' he said. `We shan't have any need to despair, in death.'
She took hold of his hand.
`But need you despair over Gerald?' she said.
`Yes,' he answered.
They went away. Gerald was taken to England, to be buried. Birkin and Ursula accompanied the body, along with one of Gerald's brothers. It was the Crich brothers and sisters who insisted on the burial in England. Birkin wanted to leave the dead man in the Alps, near the snow. But the family was strident, loudly insistent.
Gudrun went to Dresden. She wrote no particulars of herself. Ursula stayed at the Mill with Birkin for a week or two. They were both very quiet.
`Did you need Gerald?' she asked one evening.
`Yes,' he said.
`Aren't I enough for you?' she asked.
`No,' he said. `You are enough for me, as far as a woman is concerned. You are all women to me. But I wanted a man friend, as eternal as you and I are eternal.'
`Why aren't I enough?' she said. `You are enough for me. I don't want anybody else but you. Why isn't it the same with you?'
`Having you, I can live all my life without anybody else, any other sheer intimacy. But to make it complete, really happy, I wanted eternal union with a man too: another kind of love,' he said.
`I don't believe it,' she said. `It's an obstinacy, a theory, a perversity.'
`Well --' he said.
`You can't have two kinds of love. Why should you!'
It seems as if I can't,' he said. `Yet I wanted it.'
`You can't have it, because it's false, impossible,' she said.
`I don't believe that,' he answered.




翌日清晨别人把杰拉德的尸体运了回来,此时戈珍还闭门未出。她看到窗外几个男人抬着什么重负踏雪走来。她静静地坐着磨时间。
有人敲门。她打开门,门外站着一个女人,轻柔地很有礼貌地说:
“夫人,他们找到了他!”
“他死了?”
“是的,死了好几个小时了。”
戈珍不知说什么好。她应该说什么呢?她做何感想?她该做什么?他们指望她做什么?她茫然无措,露出一副冷漠相。
“谢谢,”说完她关上了卧室的门。那女人窝着火走开了。没有一句话,没有一滴泪,戈珍就是这么冷,一个冷酷的女人。
戈珍继续在屋里坐着,苍白的脸上毫无表情。她怎么办?她哭不出来,也不能闹一通。她无法改变自己。她纹丝不动地坐着,躲着别人。她的一招儿就是避免介入这事。然后她给厄秀拉和伯金发了一封长长的电报。
下午,她突然起身去找洛克。她害怕地朝杰拉德住过的屋子瞟了一眼。她无论如何是不会再进那间屋了。
她看到洛克独自一人坐在客厅里,就径直向他走过去。
“是真的吗?”她问。
他抬头看看他,苦笑一下,耸耸肩。
“真的吗?”他重复道。
“不是我们害的他吧?”她问。
他不喜欢她这副样子。他疲乏地耸耸肩道:
“可是,事儿是出了。”
她看看他。他颓唐地坐着,同她一样冷漠无情,倍觉无聊。我的天!这是一场无聊的悲剧,无聊,无聊透了。
她回到自己屋里去等厄秀拉和伯金。她想离开这儿,一个心眼儿要离开这儿。除非离开这儿,否则她就无法思想,没有感觉,不脱离这种境况她就完了。
一天过去了。翌日。她听到一阵雪橇声响。随后看到厄秀拉和伯金从高坡上滑下来,她想躲开他们。
厄秀拉直奔她而来。
“戈珍!”她叫着,泪水淌下了面颊。她一下子搂住了妹妹。戈珍把脸埋进她的怀中,可她仍然无法摆脱心头那冷酷、嘲弄人的魔鬼。
“哈,哈!”她想,“这种表现最恰当。”
可她哭不出来。看着戈珍那冷漠之情,苍白的脸,厄秀拉的泪泉也干涸了。一时间,姐妹二人竟无言以对。
“把你们又拉到这儿来是不是太可恶了?”戈珍终于说。
厄秀拉十分吃惊地抬头看着戈珍。
“我可没这么想。”她说。
“我觉得把你们叫来,真太难为你们了,”戈珍说,“可我简直不能见人。这事儿太让我无法忍受了。”
“是啊,”厄秀拉说着,心里发凉。
伯金敲敲门走了进来。他脸色苍白,毫无表情。她知道他什么都知道了。他向她伸出手说:
“这次旅行算结束了。”
戈珍有点害怕地看看他。
三个人都沉默了,没什么可说的。最后还是厄秀拉小声问:
“你见过他了?”
伯金看看厄秀拉,目光冷酷得很。他没回答。
“你见过他了?”她重复道。
“见了。”他冷冷地说。
然后他看看戈珍。
“你都做了些什么?”他问。
“什么也没有,”她说,“什么也没有。”
她感到恶心,回避回答任何问题。
“洛克说,你们在路德巴亨谷底坐在雪橇上时,杰拉德来找你,你们吵了一架,杰拉德就走了。你们为什么吵?我最好知道一下,如果当局来调查,我也好说点什么。”
戈珍面色苍白,象个孩子似地看看他,心烦意乱,一言不发。
“我们根本就没吵,”她说,“他把洛克打倒,打晕,还差点掐死我,然后他就走了。
可她心里却对自己说:
“这是永恒的三角恋的绝妙例子!”但她明白,这场斗争是杰拉德和她之间的斗争,第三者插足只是个偶然现象——或许是不可避免的偶然,但毕竟是个偶然。就让他们把这事当成三角恋的一例吧,是三人的仇恨所致。对他们来说这样更容易理解。
伯金冷漠地走开了。但她知道他无论如何总会替她出把力,他会帮忙帮到底的。她情不自禁轻蔑地笑了。让他去干吧,反正他是关心别人的好榜样。
伯金又去看杰拉德。他爱过他。可一看到那具纹丝不动的尸体他又感到厌恶。这尸体冰冷、僵硬,令伯金五脏发凉。
他站在那儿,看着冻僵的杰拉德。
这是一个冻死的男性。他让伯金想起一只冻死的兔子,象一块木板冻在雪地上。他拣起那兔子时,它早已冻成了一块干木头。现在,杰拉德也象一块冻僵的木块,缩着身子似乎是在睡,可他明显得僵硬了,硬得吓人。伯金感到十分恐惧。这房子得弄暖和点才行,尸首得化一化,否则一拉直,他的四肢就会象玻璃或木头一样碎裂。
他伸手去抚摸那张死者的脸,那脸上被冰雪划出的伤口令他五内俱焚。他怀疑自己是否也冻住了。自己的内心冻住了。棕色短髭下,鼻孔已不再喷出生命的气息。这就是杰拉德!
他又摸了摸那冰冷的尸体和那冻得闪闪发亮、刺人的黄头发。头发冰凉,几乎象毒药一样可怕。伯金的心冻住了。他爱过杰拉德。现在他看着这张颜色奇特、形状奇特的脸。他鼻子不大,很漂亮地向上翘着,面颊很有男子气。这张脸冻得象一块石头。可不管怎么说他是爱过他的。这让人做何感想啊?他的头脑开始感到冻结了,他的血液也开始变成冰水。真冷,一种沉重的,刺人的冰冷力量从外界压向他的四肢,而他的体内也开始冻结,他的心,他的内脏都开始封冻了。
他踏着雪上了山坡去看出事地点。他终于来到了山谷下为悬崖包围的大盆地中。这天天色阴沉沉的,已经三天了,一直这么阴沉、这么寂静。四下里一片惨白、冰冷、毫无生气,只有绵绵不断的黑色岩石象树根一样凸出来,有的地方那黑石又象一张张裸脸。远处,一面山坡从山顶上铺下来,坡上布满了滚下的黑色岩石。
这儿就象一只被石头和白雪包围的浅谷。杰拉德就在这里睡过去了。远处,导游们已经把铁桩深深打入雪墙之中,这样他们可以拉着栓在铁桩上的大绳索上到巨大的雪墙顶上,攀上天际下凸兀的山顶,玛丽安乎特旅馆就在山顶的一片乱石丛中。周围的雪峰象剑戟一样直刺苍穹。
杰拉德本来可以发现这根绳索,可以凭借它上到山顶。他可能听到了玛丽安乎特旅馆中的狗吠,可以在那儿找到住处。他本来可以滑下南面的悬崖,落到下面长满松柏的黑色深谷中,落到通往意大利的大路上。
他可能!那又会怎样?大路!南面?意大利?然后又会怎样?难道那就是出路?那是另一条死路。伯金顶着刺骨的寒风站在高处看着峰顶和向南的通路。往南走,去意大利有什么好?走上那条老而又老的大路吗?
他转过身。要么心碎裂,要么别再忧虑。最好是别再忧虑,不管创造人和宇宙的是什么神秘物,它终究是不以人的意志为转移的,它有它自身的伟大目标,人并非它的评判标准,让那庞大的、具有创造性的非人的神秘去解决一切问题吧。最好是我行我素,不与这宇宙发生联系。
“没有人类就没有上帝”。这是一位法国宗教大师的话。不过这话并不符合实际。没有人上帝照样存在,没有鱼龙和蛀牙象,上帝照样存在。那些怪物无法创造和发展了,所以上帝这个神秘的造物主就抛弃了它们。同样,如果人也无法创造、变化和发展,上帝也会抛弃他们。上帝这永恒的神秘造物主可以抛弃人,用另一种更优秀的生命取代人类,就象马取代了蛀牙象一样。
想想这些,伯金感到莫大的安慰。如果人类发展到了尽头,耗尽了自身的力量,那永恒的神秘造物主就会创造出另一类更优秀、更奇妙、更新颖、更可爱的生命来继续造物主创造的意图。这场戏永远也唱不完。创造的神秘永远是深不可测、无不正确,永不衰竭的,永远是这样。种族和物种出现了又消亡了,但总有会新的、更好或同样好的崛起,总会有奇迹诞生。创造的源泉是不会干涸的,谁也找不到它。它没有局限。它可以创造奇迹,按自己的时间表创造出全新的种族,新型的意识,新型的肉体和新的生命统一体。与创造的神秘相比,人是太微不足道了。让人的脉搏从那神秘处跳起来,这是如此完美,难以名状的满足。至于是否是人倒无关紧要。那完美的脉搏是与难以名状的生命和神秘、未来的物种一起跳动的。
伯金又回到杰拉德身旁。他进了屋坐在床上。这里弥漫着死人气和阴冷气息。
“凯撒大帝死了,变成了泥土,
他会堵住一个洞挡风。”①
①《哈姆雷特》第五幕,第一场。
杰拉德的躯体没有一点反应。他这个人已变成了一堆陌生、冰冷的东西——就这些。他死了!
伯金异常疲惫地走开了,去处理一天的事物。他默默地、毫不费力地做他的事。去吼叫、哀伤、兴师动众——这都晚了。最好是保持沉默、耐心地忍受痛苦。
可是到了晚上,他被心中的欲望驱使着,手持蜡烛又进来了。他又看到了杰拉德,他的心突然缩紧,蜡烛从手中滑落,他抽啜着,泪水淆然而下。他坐在椅子上,突然的感情爆发令他浑身颤抖起来。随他进来的厄秀拉看到他垂头而坐,浑身抽搐,边落泪、边奇异地哭泣,吓得退了回去。
“我并不想这样,并不想这样,”他哭着自言自语。厄秀拉不禁想起德国皇帝的话:“我并不想这么做。”她几乎是恐惧地看着伯金。
伯金突然安静下来。可他仍然垂着头把脸埋在胸前,偷偷用手指抹去泪水。随后他突然抬起头,黑色、复仇样的目光直刺厄秀拉。
“他那时应该爱我,”他说,“我曾表示过。”
她脸色苍白,恐惧、咬着牙说:
“即使如此又会怎么样?!”
“会不一样的!”他说,“就不会是这样的下场!”
他撇下她,转脸去看杰拉德。他奇怪地抬着头,就象一个傲岸对待辱没他的人那样昂着头凝视杰拉德那冰冷、僵死的脸。他的脸发青,就象一根冷箭刺穿活人的心灵。冰冷、僵死的东西!伯金记起杰拉德曾热切地握住他的手表达对他的无限爱恋,那一瞬间说明了一切。只那么一下就松开了,永远松开了手。如果他仍忠于那一下紧紧的握手,死亡并不能改变一切。那死去的和正在死去仍然可以爱,可以相互信任,他们不会死,他们仍活在所爱者的心中。杰拉德死后仍旧同伯金一起在精神上共存。他可以和朋友在一起,他的生命在伯金身上继续存在。
可现在他是死了,就象一团泥、象一块蓝色、可以溶化的冰。伯金看看他苍白的手指,都不能动了。这让他想起他见过的一匹死马:一堆雄性的死肉,令人恶心。他又想起他所爱的人那张英俊的脸,他死时仍信服那神秘物。那张脸很英俊,没有人会说它冷漠、僵死。一想起它,你就会相信造物主,心中就会因为对生活有了新的、深刻的信念而温暖。
可是杰拉德!他不相信生活!他去了,他的心是冰冻的,几乎跳动不起来。他父亲当年死时,那充满希冀的表情令人心碎。可杰拉德却是这种可怕的冷漠、僵死相。伯金把他的脸看了又看。
厄秀拉在一旁观察着这个活人如何凝视死人那冻僵了的脸。活人和死人的脸都那么毫无表情。紧张的空气中蜡烛爆着火花。
“还没看够吗?”她问。
他站起身来。
“这真让我难受,”他说。
“什么——他的死?”她问。
他们的目光相遇了。他没回答。
“还有我呢。”她说。
他笑笑,吻着她说:
“如果我死了,你会知道我并没离开你。”
“那我呢?”她叫道。
“你也不会离开我的。”他说,“咱们不必因为死而绝望。”
她握住他的手说:
“可是杰拉德的死让你绝望吗?”
“是的。”他说。
说完他们就走了。杰拉德的尸体被带回英国埋了,是伯金、厄秀拉和杰拉德的一个弟弟送他回去的。克里奇家的兄弟姐妹坚持要把他葬在英国。而伯金则想让他留在阿尔卑斯雪山上。但是克里奇家不同意,态度很坚决。
戈珍去了德累斯顿。也没写封详细点的信来。厄秀拉和伯金在磨坊的住处住了一二个星期,心境都很平静。
“你需要杰拉德吗?”一天晚上她问他。
“需要。”他说。
“有我,你还不够吗?”她问。
“不够,”他说,“作为女人,你对我来说足够了。你对我来说就是所有的女人。可我需要一个男性朋友,如同你我是永恒的朋友一样,他也是我永恒的朋友。”
“我为什么让你不满足呢?”她问,“你对我来说足够了。
除了你我谁也不再想了。为什么你就跟我不一样呢?”
“有了你,我可以不需要别人过一辈子,不需要别的亲密关系。可要让我的生活更完整,真正幸福,我还需要同另一个男子结成永恒的同盟,这是另一种爱。”他说。
“我不相信,”她说,“这是固执,是一种理念,是变态。”
“那——”
“你不可能有两种爱。为什么要这样!”
“似乎我不能,”他说,“可我想这样。”
“你无法这样,因为这是假的,不可能的。”她说。
“可我不信。”他回答说。
  

。|。|。Women in Love。|。|。
天天书屋

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不错啊支持一下
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lianchengy

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